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Title: Peveril of the Peak
Author: Sir Walter Scott
Release Date: May 1, 2009 [EBook #5959]
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PEVERIL OF THE PEAK

CHAPTER I

When civil dudgeon first grew high,
And men fell out, they knew not why;
When foul words, jealousies, and fears,
Set folk together by the ears—
—BUTLER.

William, the Conqueror of England, was, or supposed himself to be, the
father of a certain William Peveril, who attended him to the battle of
Hastings, and there distinguished himself. The liberal-minded monarch, who
assumed in his charters the veritable title of Gulielmus Bastardus, was
not likely to let his son's illegitimacy be any bar to the course of his
royal favour, when the laws of England were issued from the mouth of the
Norman victor, and the lands of the Saxons were at his unlimited disposal.
William Peveril obtained a liberal grant of property and lordships in
Derbyshire, and became the erecter of that Gothic fortress, which, hanging
over the mouth of the Devil's Cavern, so well known to tourists, gives the
name of Castleton to the adjacent village.

From this feudal Baron, who chose his nest upon the principles on which an
eagle selects her eyry, and built it in such a fashion as if he had
intended it, as an Irishman said of the Martello towers, for the sole
purpose of puzzling posterity, there was, or conceived themselves to be,
descended (for their pedigree was rather hypothetical) an opulent family
of knightly rank, in the same county of Derby. The great fief of
Castleton, with its adjacent wastes and forests, and all the wonders which
they contain, had been forfeited in King John's stormy days, by one
William Peveril, and had been granted anew to the Lord Ferrers of that
day. Yet this William's descendants, though no longer possessed of what
they alleged to have been their original property, were long distinguished
by the proud title of Peverils of the Peak, which served to mark their
high descent and lofty pretensions.

In Charles the Second's time, the representative of this ancient family
was Sir Geoffrey Peveril, a man who had many of the ordinary attributes of
an old-fashioned country gentleman, and very few individual traits to
distinguish him from the general portrait of that worthy class of mankind.
He was proud of small advantages, angry at small disappointments,
incapable of forming any resolution or opinion abstracted from his own
prejudices—he was proud of his birth, lavish in his housekeeping,
convivial with those kindred and acquaintances, who would allow his
superiority in rank—contentious and quarrelsome with all that
crossed his pretensions—kind to the poor, except when they plundered
his game—a Royalist in his political opinions, and one who detested
alike a Roundhead, a poacher, and a Presbyterian. In religion Sir Geoffrey
was a high-churchman, of so exalted a strain that many thought he still
nourished in private the Roman Catholic tenets, which his family had only
renounced in his father's time, and that he had a dispensation for
conforming in outward observances to the Protestant faith. There was at
least such a scandal amongst the Puritans, and the influence which Sir
Geoffrey Peveril certainly appeared to possess amongst the Catholic
gentlemen of Derbyshire and Cheshire, seemed to give countenance to the
rumour.

Such was Sir Geoffrey, who might have passed to his grave without further
distinction than a brass-plate in the chancel, had he not lived in times
which forced the most inactive spirits into exertion, as a tempest
influences the sluggish waters of the deadest mere. When the Civil Wars
broke out, Peveril of the Peak, proud from pedigree, and brave by
constitution, raised a regiment for the King, and showed upon several
occasions more capacity for command than men had heretofore given him
credit for.

Even in the midst of the civil turmoil, he fell in love with, and married,
a beautiful and amiable young lady of the noble house of Stanley; and from
that time had the more merit in his loyalty, as it divorced him from her
society, unless at very brief intervals, when his duty permitted an
occasional visit to his home. Scorning to be allured from his military
duty by domestic inducements, Peveril of the Peak fought on for several
rough years of civil war, and performed his part with sufficient
gallantry, until his regiment was surprised and cut to pieces by Poyntz,
Cromwell's enterprising and successful general of cavalry. The defeated
Cavalier escaped from the field of battle, and, like a true descendant of
William the Conqueror, disdaining submission, threw himself into his own
castellated mansion, which was attacked and defended in a siege of that
irregular kind which caused the destruction of so many baronial residences
during the course of those unhappy wars. Martindale Castle, after having
suffered severely from the cannon which Cromwell himself brought against
it, was at length surrendered when in the last extremity. Sir Geoffrey
himself became a prisoner, and while his liberty was only restored upon a
promise of remaining a peaceful subject to the Commonwealth in future, his
former delinquencies, as they were termed by the ruling party, were
severely punished by fine and sequestration.

But neither his forced promise, nor the fear of farther unpleasant
consequences to his person or property, could prevent Peveril of the Peak
from joining the gallant Earl of Derby the night before the fatal
engagement in Wiggan Lane, where the Earl's forces were dispersed. Sir
Geoffrey having had his share in that action, escaped with the relics of
the Royalists after the defeat, to join Charles II. He witnessed also the
final defeat of Worcester, where he was a second time made prisoner; and
as, in the opinion of Cromwell and the language of the times, he was
regarded as an obstinate malignant, he was in great danger of having
shared with the Earl of Derby his execution at Bolton-le-Moor, having
partaken with him the dangers of two actions. But Sir Geoffrey's life was
preserved by the interest of a friend, who possessed influence in the
councils of Oliver.—This was a Mr. Bridgenorth, a gentleman of
middling quality, whose father had been successful in some commercial
adventure during the peaceful reign of James I.; and who had bequeathed
his son a considerable sum of money, in addition to the moderate patrimony
which he inherited from his father.

The substantial, though small-sized, brick building of Moultrassie Hall,
was but two miles distant from Martindale Castle, and the young
Bridgenorth attended the same school with the heir of the Peverils. A sort
of companionship, if not intimacy, took place betwixt them, which
continued during their youthful sports—the rather that Bridgenorth,
though he did not at heart admit Sir Geoffrey's claims of superiority to
the extent which the other's vanity would have exacted, paid deference in
a reasonable degree to the representative of a family so much more ancient
and important than his own, without conceiving that he in any respect
degraded himself by doing so.

Mr. Bridgenorth did not, however, carry his complaisance so far as to
embrace Sir Geoffrey's side during the Civil War. On the contrary, as an
active Justice of the Peace, he rendered much assistance in arraying the
militia in the cause of the Parliament, and for some time held a military
commission in that service. This was partly owing to his religious
principles, for he was a zealous Presbyterian, partly to his political
ideas, which, without being absolutely democratical, favoured the popular
side of the great national question. Besides, he was a moneyed man, and to
a certain extent had a shrewd eye to his worldly interest. He understood
how to improve the opportunities which civil war afforded, of advancing
his fortune, by a dexterous use of his capital; and he was not at a loss
to perceive that these were likely to be obtained in joining the
Parliament; while the King's cause, as it was managed, held out nothing to
the wealthy but a course of exaction and compulsory loans. For these
reasons, Bridgenorth became a decided Roundhead, and all friendly
communication betwixt his neighbour and him was abruptly broken asunder.
This was done with the less acrimony, that, during the Civil War, Sir
Geoffrey was almost constantly in the field, following the vacillating and
unhappy fortunes of his master; while Major Bridgenorth, who soon
renounced active military service, resided chiefly in London, and only
occasionally visited the Hall.

Upon these visits, it was with great pleasure he received the
intelligence, that Lady Peveril had shown much kindness to Mrs.
Bridgenorth, and had actually given her and her family shelter in
Martindale Castle, when Moultrassie Hall was threatened with pillage by a
body of Prince Rupert's ill-disciplined Cavaliers. This acquaintance had
been matured by frequent walks together, which the vicinity of their
places of residence suffered the Lady Peveril to have with Mrs.
Bridgenorth, who deemed herself much honoured in being thus admitted into
the society of so distinguished a lady. Major Bridgenorth heard of this
growing intimacy with great pleasure, and he determined to repay the
obligation, as far as he could without much hurt to himself, by
interfering with all his influence, in behalf of her unfortunate husband.
It was chiefly owing to Major Bridgenorth's mediation, that Sir Geoffrey's
life was saved after the battle of Worcester. He obtained him permission
to compound for his estate on easier terms than many who had been less
obstinate in malignancy; and, finally, when, in order to raise the money
to the composition, the Knight was obliged to sell a considerable portion
of his patrimony, Major Bridgenorth became the purchaser, and that at a
larger price than had been paid to any Cavalier under such circumstances,
by a member of the Committee for Sequestrations. It is true, the prudent
committeeman did not, by any means, lose sight of his own interest in the
transaction, for the price was, after all, very moderate, and the property
lay adjacent to Moultrassie Hall, the value of which was at least trebled
by the acquisition. But then it was also true, that the unfortunate owner
must have submitted to much worse conditions, had the committeeman used,
as others did, the full advantages which his situation gave him; and
Bridgenorth took credit to himself, and received it from others, for
having, on this occasion, fairly sacrificed his interest to his
liberality.

Sir Geoffrey Peveril was of the same opinion, and the rather that Mr.
Bridgenorth seemed to bear his exaltation with great moderation, and was
disposed to show him personally the same deference in his present sunshine
of prosperity, which he had exhibited formerly in their early
acquaintance. It is but justice to Major Bridgenorth to observe, that in
this conduct he paid respect as much to the misfortunes as to the
pretensions of his far-descended neighbour, and that, with the frank
generosity of a blunt Englishman, he conceded points of ceremony, about
which he himself was indifferent, merely because he saw that his doing so
gave pleasure to Sir Geoffrey.

Peveril of the Peak did justice to his neighbour's delicacy, in
consideration of which he forgot many things. He forgot that Major
Bridgenorth was already in possession of a fair third of his estate, and
had various pecuniary claims affecting the remainder, to the extent of
one-third more. He endeavoured even to forget, what it was still more
difficult not to remember, the altered situation in which they and their
mansions now stood to each other.

Before the Civil War, the superb battlements and turrets of Martindale
Castle looked down on the red brick-built Hall, as it stole out from the
green plantations, just as an oak in Martindale Chase would have looked
beside one of the stunted and formal young beech-trees with which
Bridgenorth had graced his avenue; but after the siege which we have
commemorated, the enlarged and augmented Hall was as much predominant in
the landscape over the shattered and blackened ruins of the Castle, of
which only one wing was left habitable, as the youthful beech, in all its
vigour of shoot and bud, would appear to the same aged oak stripped of its
boughs, and rifted by lightning, one-half laid in shivers on the ground,
and the other remaining a blackened and ungraceful trunk, rent and
splintered, and without either life or leaves. Sir Geoffrey could not but
feel, that the situation and prospects were exchanged as disadvantageously
for himself as the appearance of their mansions; and that though the
authority of the man in office under the Parliament, the sequestrator, and
the committeeman, had been only exerted for the protection of the Cavalier
and the malignant, they would have been as effectual if applied to procure
his utter ruin; and that he was become a client, while his neighbour was
elevated into a patron.

There were two considerations, besides the necessity of the case and the
constant advice of his lady, which enabled Peveril of the Peak to endure,
with some patience, this state of degradation. The first was, that the
politics of Major Bridgenorth began, on many points, to assimilate
themselves to his own. As a Presbyterian, he was not an utter enemy to
monarchy, and had been considerably shocked at the unexpected trial and
execution of the King; as a civilian and a man of property, he feared the
domination of the military; and though he wished not to see Charles
restored by force of arms, yet he arrived at the conclusion, that to bring
back the heir of the royal family on such terms of composition as might
ensure the protection of those popular immunities and privileges for which
the Long Parliament had at first contended, would be the surest and most
desirable termination to the mutations in state affairs which had agitated
Britain. Indeed, the Major's ideas on this point approached so nearly
those of his neighbour, that he had well-nigh suffered Sir Geoffrey, who
had a finger in almost all the conspiracies of the Royalists, to involve
him in the unfortunate rising of Penruddock and Groves, in the west, in
which many of the Presbyterian interest, as well as the Cavalier party,
were engaged. And though his habitual prudence eventually kept him out of
this and other dangers, Major Bridgenorth was considered during the last
years of Cromwell's domination, and the interregnum which succeeded, as a
disaffected person to the Commonwealth, and a favourer of Charles Stewart.

But besides this approximation to the same political opinions, another
bond of intimacy united the families of the Castle and the Hall. Major
Bridgenorth, fortunate, and eminently so, in all his worldly transactions,
was visited by severe and reiterated misfortunes in his family, and
became, in this particular, an object of compassion to his poorer and more
decayed neighbour. Betwixt the breaking out of the Civil War and the
Restoration, he lost successively a family of no less than six children,
apparently through a delicacy of constitution, which cut off the little
prattlers at the early age when they most wind themselves round the heart
of the parents.

In the beginning of the year 1658, Major Bridgenorth was childless; ere it
ended, he had a daughter, indeed, but her birth was purchased by the death
of an affectionate wife, whose constitution had been exhausted by maternal
grief, and by the anxious and harrowing reflection, that from her the
children they had lost derived that delicacy of health, which proved
unable to undergo the tear and wear of existence. The same voice which
told Bridgenorth that he was the father of a living child (it was the
friendly voice of Lady Peveril), communicated to him the melancholy
intelligence that he was no longer a husband. The feelings of Major
Bridgenorth were strong and deep, rather than hasty and vehement; and his
grief assumed the form of a sullen stupor, from which neither the friendly
remonstrances of Sir Geoffrey, who did not fail to be with his neighbour
at this distressing conjuncture, even though he knew he must meet the
Presbyterian pastor, nor the ghastly exhortations of this latter person,
were able to rouse the unfortunate widower.

At length Lady Peveril, with the ready invention of a female sharped by
the sight of distress and the feelings of sympathy, tried on the sufferer
one of those experiments by which grief is often awakened from despondency
into tears. She placed in Bridgenorth's arms the infant whose birth had
cost him so dear, and conjured him to remember that his Alice was not yet
dead, since she survived in the helpless child she had left to his
paternal care.

"Take her away—take her away!" said the unhappy man, and they were
the first words he had spoken; "let me not look on her—it is but
another blossom that has bloomed to fade, and the tree that bore it will
never flourish more!"

He almost threw the child into Lady Peveril's arms, placed his hands
before his face, and wept aloud. Lady Peveril did not say "be comforted,"
but she ventured to promise that the blossom should ripen to fruit.

"Never, never!" said Bridgenorth; "take the unhappy child away, and let me
only know when I shall wear black for her—Wear black!" he exclaimed,
interrupting himself, "what other colour shall I wear during the remainder
of my life?"

"I will take the child for a season," said Lady Peveril, "since the sight
of her is so painful to you; and the little Alice shall share the nursery
of our Julian, until it shall be pleasure and not pain for you to look on
her."

"That hour will never come," said the unhappy father; "her doom is written—she
will follow the rest—God's will be done.—Lady, I thank you—I
trust her to your care; and I thank God that my eye shall not see her
dying agonies."

Without detaining the reader's attention longer on this painful theme, it
is enough to say that the Lady Peveril did undertake the duties of a
mother to the little orphan; and perhaps it was owing, in a great measure,
to her judicious treatment of the infant, that its feeble hold of life was
preserved, since the glimmering spark might probably have been altogether
smothered, had it, like the Major's former children, undergone the
over-care and over-nursing of a mother rendered nervously cautious and
anxious by so many successive losses. The lady was the more ready to
undertake this charge, that she herself had lost two infant children; and
that she attributed the preservation of the third, now a fine healthy
child of three years old, to Julian's being subjected to rather a
different course of diet and treatment than was then generally practised.
She resolved to follow the same regiment with the little orphan, which she
had observed in the case of her own boy; and it was equally successful. By
a more sparing use of medicine, by a bolder admission of fresh air, by a
firm, yet cautious attention to encourage rather than to supersede the
exertions of nature, the puny infant, under the care of an excellent
nurse, gradually improved in strength and in liveliness.

Sir Geoffrey, like most men of his frank and good-natured disposition, was
naturally fond of children, and so much compassionated the sorrows of his
neighbour, that he entirely forgot his being a Presbyterian, until it
became necessary that the infant should be christened by a teacher of that
persuasion.

This was a trying case—the father seemed incapable of giving
direction; and that the threshold of Martindale Castle should be violated
by the heretical step of a dissenting clergyman, was matter of horror to
its orthodox owner. He had seen the famous Hugh Peters, with a Bible in
one hand and a pistol in the other, ride in triumph through the court-door
when Martindale was surrendered; and the bitterness of that hour had
entered like iron into his soul. Yet such was Lady Peveril's influence
over the prejudices of her husband, that he was induced to connive at the
ceremony taking place in a remote garden house, which was not properly
within the precincts of the Castle-wall. The lady even dared to be present
while the ceremony was performed by the Reverend Master Solsgrace, who had
once preached a sermon of three hours' length before the House of Commons,
upon a thanksgiving occasion after the relief of Exeter. Sir Geoffrey
Peveril took care to be absent the whole day from the Castle, and it was
only from the great interest which he took in the washing, perfuming, and
as it were purification of the summer-house, that it could have been
guessed he knew anything of what had taken place in it.

But, whatever prejudices the good Knight might entertain against his
neighbour's form of religion, they did not in any way influence his
feelings towards him as a sufferer under severe affliction. The mode in
which he showed his sympathy was rather singular, but exactly suited the
character of both, and the terms on which they stood with each other.

Morning after morning the good Baronet made Moultrassie Hall the
termination of his walk or ride, and said a single word of kindness as he
passed. Sometimes he entered the old parlour where the proprietor sat in
solitary wretchedness and despondency; but more frequently (for Sir
Geoffrey did not pretend to great talents of conversation), he paused on
the terrace, and stopping or halting his horse by the latticed window,
said aloud to the melancholy inmate, "How is it with you, Master
Bridgenorth?" (the Knight would never acknowledge his neighbour's military
rank of Major); "I just looked in to bid you keep a good heart, man, and
to tell you that Julian is well, and little Alice is well, and all are
well at Martindale Castle."

A deep sigh, sometimes coupled with "I thank you, Sir Geoffrey; my
grateful duty waits on Lady Peveril," was generally Bridgenorth's only
answer. But the news was received on the one part with the kindness which
was designed upon the other; it gradually became less painful and more
interesting; the lattice window was never closed, nor was the leathern
easy-chair which stood next to it ever empty, when the usual hour of the
Baronet's momentary visit approached. At length the expectation of that
passing minute became the pivot upon which the thoughts of poor
Bridgenorth turned during all the rest of the day. Most men have known the
influence of such brief but ruling moments at some period of their lives.
The moment when a lover passes the window of his mistress—the moment
when the epicure hears the dinner-bell,—is that into which is
crowded the whole interest of the day; the hours which precede it are
spent in anticipation; the hours which follow, in reflection on what has
passed; and fancy dwelling on each brief circumstance, gives to seconds
the duration of minutes, to minutes that of hours. Thus seated in his
lonely chair, Bridgenorth could catch at a distance the stately step of
Sir Geoffrey, or the heavy tramp of his war-horse, Black Hastings, which
had borne him in many an action; he could hear the hum of "The King shall
enjoy his own again," or the habitual whistle of "Cuckolds and
Roundheads," die unto reverential silence, as the Knight approached the
mansion of affliction; and then came the strong hale voice of the huntsman
soldier with its usual greeting.

By degrees the communication became something more protracted, as Major
Bridgenorth's grief, like all human feelings, lost its overwhelming
violence, and permitted him to attend, in some degree, to what passed
around him, to discharge various duties which pressed upon him, and to
give a share of attention to the situation of the country, distracted as
it was by the contending factions, whose strife only terminated in the
Restoration. Still, however, though slowly recovering from the effects of
the shock which he had sustained, Major Bridgenorth felt himself as yet
unable to make up his mind to the effort necessary to see his infant; and
though separated by so short a distance from the being in whose existence
he was more interested than in anything the world afforded, he only made
himself acquainted with the windows of the apartment where little Alice
was lodged, and was often observed to watch them from the terrace, as they
brightened in the evening under the influence of the setting sun. In
truth, though a strong-minded man in most respects, he was unable to lay
aside the gloomy impression that this remaining pledge of affection was
soon to be conveyed to that grave which had already devoured all besides
that was dear to him; and he awaited in miserable suspense the moment when
he should hear that symptoms of the fatal malady had begun to show
themselves.

The voice of Peveril continued to be that of a comforter until the month
of April 1660, when it suddenly assumed a new and different tone. "The
King shall enjoy his own again," far from ceasing, as the hasty tread of
Black Hastings came up the avenue, bore burden to the clatter of his hoofs
on the paved courtyard, as Sir Geoffrey sprang from his great war-saddle,
now once more garnished with pistols of two feet in length, and, armed
with steel-cap, back and breast, and a truncheon in his hand, he rushed
into the apartment of the astonished Major, with his eyes sparkling, and
his cheek inflamed, while he called out, "Up! up, neighbour! No time now
to mope in the chimney-corner! Where is your buff-coat and broadsword,
man? Take the true side once in your life, and mend past mistakes. The
King is all lenity, man—all royal nature and mercy. I will get your
full pardon."

"What means all this?" said Bridgenorth—"Is all well with you—all
well at Martindale Castle, Sir Geoffrey?"

"Well as you could wish them, Alice, and Julian, and all. But I have news
worth twenty of that—Monk has declared at London against those
stinking scoundrels the Rump. Fairfax is up in Yorkshire—for the
King—for the King, man! Churchmen, Presbyterians, and all, are in
buff and bandoleer for King Charles. I have a letter from Fairfax to
secure Derby and Chesterfield with all the men I can make. D—n him,
fine that I should take orders from him! But never mind that—all are
friends now, and you and I, good neighbour, will charge abreast, as good
neighbours should. See there! read—read—read—and then
boot and saddle in an instant.

'Hey for cavaliers—ho for cavaliers,
Pray for cavaliers,
Dub-a-dub, dub-a-dub,
Have at old Beelzebub,
Oliver shakes in his bier!'"

After thundering forth this elegant effusion of loyal enthusiasm, the
sturdy Cavalier's heart became too full. He threw himself on a seat, and
exclaiming, "Did ever I think to live to see this happy day!" he wept, to
his own surprise, as much as to that of Bridgenorth.

Upon considering the crisis in which the country was placed, it appeared
to Major Bridgenorth, as it had done to Fairfax, and other leaders of the
Presbyterian party, that their frank embracing of the royal interest was
the wisest and most patriotic measure which they could adopt in the
circumstances, when all ranks and classes of men were seeking refuge from
the uncertainty and varied oppression attending the repeated contests
between the factions of Westminster Hall and of Wallingford House.
Accordingly he joined with Sir Geoffrey, with less enthusiasm indeed, but
with equal sincerity, taking such measures as seemed proper to secure
their part of the country on the King's behalf, which was done as
effectually and peaceably as in other parts of England. The neighbours
were both at Chesterfield, when news arrived that the King had landed in
England; and Sir Geoffrey instantly announced his purpose of waiting upon
his Majesty, even before his return to the Castle of Martindale.

"Who knows, neighbour," he said, "whether Sir Geoffrey Peveril will ever
return to Martindale? Titles must be going amongst them yonder, and I have
deserved something among the rest.—Lord Peveril would sound well—or
stay, Earl of Martindale—no, not of Martindale—Earl of the
Peak.—Meanwhile, trust your affairs to me—I will see you
secured—I would you had been no Presbyterian, neighbour—a
knighthood,—I mean a knight-bachelor, not a knight-baronet,—would
have served your turn well."

"I leave these things to my betters, Sir Geoffrey," said the Major, "and
desire nothing so earnestly as to find all well at Martindale when I
return."

"You will—you will find them all well," said the Baronet; "Julian,
Alice, Lady Peveril, and all of them—Bear my commendations to them,
and kiss them all, neighbour, Lady Peveril and all—you may kiss a
Countess when I come back; all will go well with you now you are turned
honest man."

"I always meant to be so, Sir Geoffrey," said Bridgenorth calmly.

"Well, well, well—no offence meant," said the Knight, "all is well
now—so you to Moultrassie Hall, and I to Whitehall. Said I well,
aha! So ho, mine host, a stoup of Canary to the King's health ere we get
to horse—I forgot, neighbour—you drink no healths."

"I wish the King's health as sincerely as if I drank a gallon to it,"
replied the Major; "and I wish you, Sir Geoffrey, all success on your
journey, and a safe return."

CHAPTER II

Why, then, we will have bellowing of beeves,
Broaching of barrels, brandishing of spigots;
Blood shall flow freely, but it shall be gore
Of herds and flocks, and venison and poultry,
Join'd to the brave heart's-blood of John-a-Barleycorn!
—OLD PLAY.

Whatever rewards Charles might have condescended to bestow in
acknowledgement of the sufferings and loyalty of Peveril of the Peak, he
had none in his disposal equal to the pleasure which Providence had
reserved for Bridgenorth on his return to Derbyshire. The exertion to
which he had been summoned, had had the usual effect of restoring to a
certain extent the activity and energy of his character, and he felt it
would be unbecoming to relapse into the state of lethargic melancholy from
which it had roused him. Time also had its usual effect in mitigating the
subjects of his regret; and when he had passed one day at the Hall in
regretting that he could not expect the indirect news of his daughter's
health, which Sir Geoffrey used to communicate in his almost daily call,
he reflected that it would be in every respect becoming that he should pay
a personal visit at Martindale Castle, carry thither the remembrances of
the Knight to his lady, assure her of his health, and satisfy himself
respecting that of his daughter. He armed himself for the worst—he
called to recollection the thin cheeks, faded eye, wasted hand, pallid
lip, which had marked the decaying health of all his former infants.

"I shall see," he said, "these signs of mortality once more—I shall
once more see a beloved being to whom I have given birth, gliding to the
grave which ought to enclose me long before her. No matter—it is
unmanly so long to shrink from that which must be—God's will be
done!"

He went accordingly, on the subsequent morning, to Martindale Castle, and
gave the lady the welcome assurances of her husband's safety, and of his
hopes of preferment.

"For the first, may Almighty God be praised!" said the Lady Peveril; "and
be the other as our gracious and restored Sovereign may will it. We are
great enough for our means, and have means sufficient for contentment,
though not for splendour. And now I see, good Master Bridgenorth, the
folly of putting faith in idle presentiments of evil. So often had Sir
Geoffrey's repeated attempts in favour of the Stewarts led him into new
misfortunes, that when, the other morning, I saw him once more dressed in
his fatal armour, and heard the sound of his trumpet, which had been so
long silent, it seemed to me as if I saw his shroud, and heard his
death-knell. I say this to you, good neighbour, the rather because I fear
your own mind has been harassed with anticipations of impending calamity,
which it may please God to avert in your case as it has done in mine; and
here comes a sight which bears good assurance of it."

The door of the apartment opened as she spoke, and two lovely children
entered. The eldest, Julian Peveril, a fine boy betwixt four and five
years old, led in his hand, with an air of dignified support and
attention, a little girl of eighteen months, who rolled and tottered
along, keeping herself with difficulty upright by the assistance of her
elder, stronger, and masculine companion.

Bridgenorth cast a hasty and fearful glance upon the countenance of his
daughter, and, even in that glimpse, perceived, with exquisite delight,
that his fears were unfounded. He caught her in his arms, pressed her to
his heart, and the child, though at first alarmed at the vehemence of his
caresses, presently, as if prompted by Nature, smiled in reply to them.
Again he held her at some distance from him, and examined her more
attentively; he satisfied himself that the complexion of the young cherub
he had in his arms was not the hectic tinge of disease, but the clear hue
of ruddy health; and that though her little frame was slight, it was firm
and springy.

"I did not think that it could have been thus," he said, looking to Lady
Peveril, who had sat observing the scene with great pleasure; "but praise
be to God in the first instance, and next, thanks to you, madam, who have
been His instrument."

"Julian must lose his playfellow now, I suppose?" said the lady; "but the
Hall is not distant, and I will see my little charge often. Dame Martha,
the housekeeper at Moultrassie, has sense, and is careful. I will tell her
the rules I have observed with little Alice, and——"

"God forbid my girl should ever come to Moultrassie," said Major
Bridgenorth hastily; "it has been the grave of her race. The air of the
low grounds suited them not—or there is perhaps a fate connected
with the mansion. I will seek for her some other place of abode."

"That you shall not, under your favour be it spoken, Major Bridgenorth,"
answered the lady. "If you do so, we must suppose that you are
undervaluing my qualities as a nurse. If she goes not to her father's
house, she shall not quit mine. I will keep the little lady as a pledge of
her safety and my own skill; and since you are afraid of the damp of the
low grounds, I hope you will come here frequently to visit her."

This was a proposal which went to the heart of Major Bridgenorth. It was
precisely the point which he would have given worlds to arrive at, but
which he saw no chance of attaining.

It is too well known, that those whose families are long pursued by such a
fatal disease as existed in his, become, it may be said, superstitious
respecting its fatal effects, and ascribe to place, circumstance, and
individual care, much more perhaps than these can in any case contribute
to avert the fatality of constitutional distemper. Lady Peveril was aware
that this was peculiarly the impression of her neighbour; that the
depression of his spirits, the excess of his care, the feverishness of his
apprehensions, the restraint and gloom of the solitude in which he dwelt,
were really calculated to produce the evil which most of all he dreaded.
She pitied him, she felt for him, she was grateful for former protection
received at his hands—she had become interested in the child itself.
What female fails to feel such interest in the helpless creature she has
tended? And to sum the whole up, the dame had a share of human vanity; and
being a sort of Lady Bountiful in her way (for the character was not then
confined to the old and the foolish), she was proud of the skill by which
she had averted the probable attacks of hereditary malady, so inveterate
in the family of Bridgenorth. It needed not, perhaps, in other cases, that
so many reasons should be assigned for an act of neighbourly humanity; but
civil war had so lately torn the country asunder, and broken all the usual
ties of vicinage and good neighbourhood, that it was unusual to see them
preserved among persons of different political opinions.

Major Bridgenorth himself felt this; and while the tear of joy in his eye
showed how gladly he would accept Lady Peveril's proposal, he could not
help stating the obvious inconveniences attendant upon her scheme, though
it was in the tone of one who would gladly hear them overruled. "Madam,"
he said, "your kindness makes me the happiest and most thankful of men;
but can it be consistent with your own convenience? Sir Geoffrey has his
opinions on many points, which have differed, and probably do still
differ, from mine. He is high-born, and I of middling parentage only. He
uses the Church Service, and I the Catechism of the Assembly of Divines at
Westminster——"

"I hope you will find prescribed in neither of them," said the Lady
Peveril, "that I may not be a mother to your motherless child. I trust,
Master Bridgenorth, the joyful Restoration of his Majesty, a work wrought
by the direct hand of Providence, may be the means of closing and healing
all civil and religious dissensions among us, and that, instead of showing
the superior purity of our faith, by persecuting those who think otherwise
from ourselves on doctrinal points, we shall endeavour to show its real
Christian tendency, by emulating each other in actions of good-will
towards man, as the best way of showing our love to God."

"Your ladyship speaks what your own kind heart dictates," answered
Bridgenorth, who had his own share of the narrow-mindedness of the time;
"and sure am I, that if all who call themselves loyalists and Cavaliers,
thought like you—and like my friend Sir Geoffrey"—(this he
added after a moment's pause, being perhaps rather complimentary than
sincere)—"we, who thought it our duty in time past to take arms for
freedom of conscience, and against arbitrary power, might now sit down in
peace and contentment. But I wot not how it may fall. You have sharp and
hot spirits amongst you; I will not say our power was always moderately
used, and revenge is sweet to the race of fallen Adam."

"Come, Master Bridgenorth," said the Lady Peveril gaily, "those evil
omenings do but point out conclusions, which, unless they were so
anticipated, are most unlikely to come to pass. You know what Shakespeare
says—

'To fly the boar before the boar pursues,
Were to incense the boar to follow us,
And make pursuit when he did mean no chase.'

"But I crave your pardon—it is so long since we have met, that I
forgot you love no play-books."

"With reverence to your ladyship," said Bridgenorth, "I were much to blame
did I need the idle words of a Warwickshire stroller, to teach me my
grateful duty to your ladyship on this occasion, which appoints me to be
directed by you in all things which my conscience will permit."

"Since you permit me such influence, then," replied the Lady Peveril, "I
shall be moderate in exercising it, in order that I may, in my domination
at least, give you a favourable impression of the new order of things. So,
if you will be a subject of mine for one day, neighbour, I am going, at my
lord and husband's command, to issue out my warrants to invite the whole
neighbourhood to a solemn feast at the Castle, on Thursday next; and I not
only pray you to be personally present yourself, but to prevail on your
worthy pastor, and such neighbours and friends, high and low, as may think
in your own way, to meet with the rest of the neighbourhood, to rejoice on
this joyful occasion of the King's Restoration, and thereby to show that
we are to be henceforward a united people."

The parliamentarian Major was considerably embarrassed by this proposal.
He looked upward, and downward, and around, cast his eye first to the
oak-carved ceiling, and anon fixed it upon the floor; then threw it around
the room till it lighted on his child, the sight of whom suggested another
and a better train of reflections than ceiling and floor had been able to
supply.

"Madam," he said, "I have long been a stranger to festivity, perhaps from
constitutional melancholy, perhaps from the depression which is natural to
a desolate and deprived man, in whose ear mirth is marred, like a pleasant
air when performed on a mistuned instrument. But though neither my
thoughts nor temperament are Jovial or Mercurial, it becomes me to be
grateful to Heaven for the good He has sent me by the means of your
ladyship. David, the man after God's own heart, did wash and eat bread
when his beloved child was removed—mine is restored to me, and shall
I not show gratitude under a blessing, when he showed resignation under an
affliction? Madam, I will wait on your gracious invitation with
acceptance; and such of my friends with whom I may possess influence, and
whose presence your ladyship may desire, shall accompany me to the
festivity, that our Israel may be as one people."

Having spoken these words with an aspect which belonged more to a martyr
than to a guest bidden to a festival, and having kissed, and solemnly
blessed his little girl, Major Bridgenorth took his departure for
Moultrassie Hall.

CHAPTER III

Here's neither want of appetite nor mouths;
Pray Heaven we be not scant of meat or mirth!
—OLD PLAY.

Even upon ordinary occasions, and where means were ample, a great
entertainment in those days was not such a sinecure as in modern times,
when the lady who presides has but to intimate to her menials the day and
hour when she wills it to take place. At that simple period, the lady was
expected to enter deeply into the arrangement and provision of the whole
affair; and from a little gallery, which communicated with her own private
apartment, and looked down upon the kitchen, her shrill voice was to be
heard, from time to time, like that of the warning spirit in a tempest,
rising above the clash of pots and stewpans—the creaking spits—the
clattering of marrowbones and cleavers—the scolding of cooks—and
all the other various kinds of din which form an accompaniment to dressing
a large dinner.

But all this toil and anxiety was more than doubled in the case of the
approaching feast at Martindale Castle, where the presiding Genius of the
festivity was scarce provided with adequate means to carry her hospitable
purpose into effect. The tyrannical conduct of husbands, in such cases, is
universal; and I scarce know one householder of my acquaintance who has
not, on some ill-omened and most inconvenient season, announced suddenly
to his innocent helpmate, that he had invited

"Some odious Major Rock,
To drop in at six o'clock."

to the great discomposure of the lady, and the discredit, perhaps, of her
domestic arrangements.

Peveril of the Peak was still more thoughtless; for he had directed his
lady to invite the whole honest men of the neighbourhood to make good
cheer at Martindale Castle, in honour of the blessed Restoration of his
most sacred Majesty, without precisely explaining where the provisions
were to come from. The deer-park had lain waste ever since the siege; the
dovecot could do little to furnish forth such an entertainment; the
fishponds, it is true, were well provided (which the neighbouring
Presbyterians noted as a suspicious circumstance); and game was to be had
for the shooting, upon the extensive heaths and hills of Derbyshire. But
these were but the secondary parts of a banquet; and the house-steward and
bailiff, Lady Peveril's only coadjutors and counsellors, could not agree
how the butcher-meat—the most substantial part, or, as it were, the
main body of the entertainment—was to be supplied. The house-steward
threatened the sacrifice of a fine yoke of young bullocks, which the
bailiff, who pleaded the necessity of their agricultural services,
tenaciously resisted; and Lady Peveril's good and dutiful nature did not
prevent her from making some impatient reflections on the want of
consideration of her absent Knight, who had thus thoughtlessly placed her
in so embarrassing a situation.

These reflections were scarcely just, if a man is only responsible for
such resolutions as he adopts when he is fully master of himself. Sir
Geoffrey's loyalty, like that of many persons in his situation, had, by
dint of hopes and fears, victories and defeats, struggles and sufferings,
all arising out of the same moving cause, and turning, as it were, on the
same pivot, acquired the character of an intense and enthusiastic passion;
and the singular and surprising change of fortune, by which his highest
wishes were not only gratified, but far exceeded, occasioned for some time
a kind of intoxication of loyal rapture which seemed to pervade the whole
kingdom. Sir Geoffrey had seen Charles and his brothers, and had been
received by the merry monarch with that graceful, and at the same time
frank urbanity, by which he conciliated all who approached him; the
Knight's services and merits had been fully acknowledged, and recompense
had been hinted at, if not expressly promised. Was it for Peveril of the
Peak, in the jubilee of his spirits, to consider how his wife was to find
beef and mutton to feast his neighbours?

Luckily, however, for the embarrassed lady, there existed some one who had
composure of mind sufficient to foresee this difficulty. Just as she had
made up her mind, very reluctantly, to become debtor to Major Bridgenorth
for the sum necessary to carry her husband's commands into effect, and
whilst she was bitterly regretting this departure from the strictness of
her usual economy, the steward, who, by-the-bye, had not been absolutely
sober since the news of the King's landing at Dover, burst into the
apartment, snapping his fingers, and showing more marks of delight than
was quite consistent with the dignity of my lady's large parlour.

"What means this, Whitaker?" said the lady, somewhat peevishly; for she
was interrupted in the commencement of a letter to her neighbour on the
unpleasant business of the proposed loan,—"Is it to be always thus
with you?—Are you dreaming?"

"A vision of good omen, I trust," said the steward, with a triumphant
flourish of the hand; "far better than Pharaoh's, though, like his, it be
of fat kine."

"I prithee be plain, man," said the lady, "or fetch some one who can speak
to purpose."

"Why, odds-my-life, madam," said the steward, "mine errand can speak for
itself. Do you not hear them low? Do you not hear them bleat? A yoke of
fat oxen, and half a score prime wethers. The Castle is victualled for
this bout, let them storm when they will; and Gatherill may have his d—d
mains ploughed to the boot."

The lady, without farther questioning her elated domestic, rose and went
to the window, where she certainly beheld the oxen and sheep which had
given rise to Whitaker's exultation. "Whence come they?" said she, in some
surprise.

"Let them construe that who can," answered Whitaker; "the fellow who drove
them was a west-country man, and only said they came from a friend to help
to furnish out your ladyship's entertainment; the man would not stay to
drink—I am sorry he would not stay to drink—I crave your
ladyship's pardon for not keeping him by the ears to drink—it was
not my fault."

"That I'll be sworn it was not," said the lady.

"Nay, madam, by G—, I assure you it was not," said the zealous
steward; "for, rather than the Castle should lose credit, I drank his
health myself in double ale, though I had had my morning draught already.
I tell you the naked truth, my lady, by G—!"

"It was no great compulsion, I suppose," said the lady; "but, Whitaker,
suppose you should show your joy on such occasions, by drinking and
swearing a little less, rather than a little more, would it not be as
well, think you?"

"I crave your ladyship's pardon," said Whitaker, with much reverence; "I
hope I know my place. I am your ladyship's poor servant; and I know it
does not become me to drink and swear like your ladyship—that is,
like his honour, Sir Geoffrey, I would say. But I pray you, if I am not to
drink and swear after my degree, how are men to know Peveril of the Peak's
steward,—and I may say butler too, since I have had the keys of the
cellar ever since old Spigots was shot dead on the northwest turret, with
a black jack in his hand,—I say, how is an old Cavalier like me to
be known from those cuckoldly Roundheads that do nothing but fast and
pray, if we are not to drink and swear according to our degree?"

The lady was silent, for she well knew speech availed nothing; and, after
a moment's pause, proceeded to intimate to the steward that she would have
the persons, whose names were marked in a written paper, which she
delivered to him, invited to the approaching banquet.

Whitaker, instead of receiving the list with the mute acquiescence of a
modern Major Domo, carried it into the recess of one of the windows, and,
adjusting his spectacles, began to read it to himself. The first names,
being those of distinguished Cavalier families in the neighbourhood, he
muttered over in a tone of approbation—paused and pshawed at that of
Bridgenorth—yet acquiesced, with the observation, "But he is a good
neighbour, so it may pass for once." But when he read the name and surname
of Nehemiah Solsgrace, the Presbyterian parson, Whitaker's patience
altogether forsook him; and he declared he would as soon throw himself
into Eldon-hole,[*] as consent that the intrusive old puritan howlet, who
had usurped the pulpit of a sound orthodox divine, should ever darken the
gates of Martindale Castle by any message or mediation of his.

[*] A chasm in the earth supposed to be unfathomable, one of the
wonders of the Peak.

"The false crop-eared hypocrites," cried he, with a hearty oath, "have had
their turn of the good weather. The sun is on our side of the hedge now,
and we will pay off old scores, as sure as my name is Richard Whitaker."

"You presume on your long services, Whitaker, and on your master's
absence, or you had not dared to use me thus," said the lady.

The unwonted agitation of her voice attracted the attention of the
refractory steward, notwithstanding his present state of elevation; but he
no sooner saw that her eye glistened, and her cheek reddened, than his
obstinacy was at once subdued.

"A murrain on me," he said, "but I have made my lady angry in good
earnest! and that is an unwonted sight for to see.—I crave your
pardon, my lady! It was not poor Dick Whitaker disputed your honourable
commands, but only that second draught of double ale. We have put a double
stroke of malt to it, as your ladyship well knows, ever since the happy
Restoration. To be sure I hate a fanatic as I do the cloven foot of Satan;
but then your honourable ladyship hath a right to invite Satan himself,
cloven foot and all, to Martindale Castle; and to send me to hell's gate
with a billet of invitation—and so your will shall be done."

The invitations were sent round accordingly, in all due form; and one of
the bullocks was sent down to be roasted whole at the market-place of a
little village called Martindale-Moultrassie, which stood considerably to
the eastward both of the Castle and Hall, from which it took its double
name, at about an equal distance from both; so that, suppose a line drawn
from the one manor-house to the other, to be the base of a triangle, the
village would have occupied the salient angle. As the said village, since
the late transference of a part of Peveril's property, belonged to Sir
Geoffrey and to Bridgenorth in nearly equal portions, the lady judged it
not proper to dispute the right of the latter to add some hogsheads of
beer to the popular festivity.

In the meanwhile, she could not but suspect the Major of being the unknown
friend who had relieved her from the dilemma arising from the want of
provisions; and she esteemed herself happy when a visit from him, on the
day preceding the proposed entertainment, gave her, as she thought, an
opportunity of expressing her gratitude.

CHAPTER IV

No, sir—I will not pledge—I'm one of those
Who think good wine needs neither bush nor preface
To make it welcome. If you doubt my word,
Fill the quart-cup, and see if I will choke on't.
—OLD PLAY.

There was a serious gravity of expression in the disclamation with which
Major Bridgenorth replied to the thanks tendered to him by Lady Peveril,
for the supply of provisions which had reached her Castle so opportunely.
He seemed first not to be aware what she alluded to; and, when she
explained the circumstance, he protested so seriously that he had no share
in the benefit conferred, that Lady Peveril was compelled to believe him,
the rather that, being a man of plain downright character, affecting no
refined delicacy of sentiment, and practising almost a quaker-like
sincerity of expression, it would have been much contrary to his general
character to have made such a disavowal, unless it were founded in truth.

"My present visit to you, madam," said he, "had indeed some reference to
the festivity of to-morrow." Lady Peveril listened, but as her visitor
seemed to find some difficulty in expressing himself, she was compelled to
ask an explanation. "Madam," said the Major, "you are not perhaps entirely
ignorant that the more tender-conscienced among us have scruples at
certain practices, so general amongst your people at times of rejoicing,
that you may be said to insist upon them as articles of faith, or at least
greatly to resent their omission."

"I trust, Master Bridgenorth," said the Lady Peveril, not fully
comprehending the drift of his discourse, "that we shall, as your
entertainers, carefully avoid all allusions or reproaches founded on past
misunderstanding."

"We would expect no less, madam, from your candour and courtesy," said
Bridgenorth; "but I perceive you do not fully understand me. To be plain,
then, I allude to the fashion of drinking healths, and pledging each other
in draughts of strong liquor, which most among us consider as a
superfluous and sinful provoking of each other to debauchery, and the
excessive use of strong drink; and which, besides, if derived, as learned
divines have supposed, from the custom of the blinded Pagans, who made
libations and invoked idols when they drank, may be justly said to have
something in it heathenish, and allied to demon-worship."

The lady had already hastily considered all the topics which were likely
to introduce discord into the proposed festivity; but this very
ridiculous, yet fatal discrepancy, betwixt the manners of the parties on
convivial occasions, had entirely escaped her. She endeavoured to soothe
the objecting party, whose brows were knit like one who had fixed an
opinion by which he was determined to abide.

"I grant," she said, "my good neighbour, that this custom is at least
idle, and may be prejudicial if it leads to excess in the use of liquor,
which is apt enough to take place without such conversation. But I think,
when it hath not this consequence, it is a thing indifferent, affords a
unanimous mode of expressing our good wishes to our friends, and our loyal
duty to our sovereign; and, without meaning to put any force upon the
inclination of those who believe otherwise, I cannot see how I can deny my
guests and friends the privilege of drinking a health to the King, or to
my husband, after the old English fashion."

"My lady," said the Major, "if the age of fashion were to command it,
Popery is one of the oldest English fashions that I have heard of; but it
is our happiness that we are not benighted like our fathers, and therefore
we must act according to the light that is in us, and not after their
darkness. I had myself the honour to attend the Lord-Keeper Whitelocke,
when, at the table of the Chamberlain of the kingdom of Sweden, he did
positively refuse to pledge the health of his Queen, Christina, thereby
giving great offence, and putting in peril the whole purpose of that
voyage; which it is not to be thought so wise a man would have done, but
that he held such compliance a thing not merely indifferent, but rather
sinful and damnable."

"With all respect to Whitelocke," said the Lady Peveril, "I continue of my
own opinion, though, Heaven knows, I am no friend to riot or wassail. I
would fain accommodate myself to your scruples, and will discourage all
other pledges; but surely those of the King and of Peveril of the Peak may
be permitted?"

"I dare not," answered Bridgenorth, "lay even the ninety-ninth part of a
grain of incense upon an altar erected to Satan."

"How, sir!" said the lady; "do you bring Satan into comparison with our
master King Charles, and with my noble lord and husband?"

"Pardon me, madam," answered Bridgenorth, "I have no such thoughts—indeed
they would ill become me. I do wish the King's health and Sir Geoffrey's
devoutly, and I will pray for both. But I see not what good it should do
their health if I should prejudice my own by quaffing pledges out of quart
flagons."

"Since we cannot agree upon this matter," said Lady Peveril, "we must find
some resource by which to offend those of neither party. Suppose you
winked at our friends drinking these pledges, and we should connive at
your sitting still?"

But neither would this composition satisfy Bridgenorth, who was of
opinion, as he expressed himself, that it would be holding a candle to
Beelzebub. In fact, his temper, naturally stubborn, was at present
rendered much more so by a previous conference with his preacher, who,
though a very good man in the main, was particularly and illiberally
tenacious of the petty distinctions which his sect adopted; and while he
thought with considerable apprehension on the accession of power which
Popery, Prelacy, and Peveril of the Peak, were like to acquire by the late
Revolution, became naturally anxious to put his flock on their guard, and
prevent their being kidnapped by the wolf. He disliked extremely that
Major Bridgenorth, indisputably the head of the Presbyterian interest in
that neighbourhood, should have given his only daughter to be, as he
termed it, nursed by a Canaanitish woman; and he told him plainly that he
liked not this going to feast in the high places with the uncircumcised in
heart, and looked on the whole conviviality only as a making-merry in the
house of Tirzah.

Upon receiving this rebuke from his pastor, Bridgenorth began to suspect
he might have been partly wrong in the readiness which, in his first
ardour of gratitude, he had shown to enter into intimate intercourse with
the Castle of Martindale; but he was too proud to avow this to the
preacher, and it was not till after a considerable debate betwixt them,
that it was mutually agreed their presence at the entertainment should
depend upon the condition, that no healths or pledges should be given in
their presence. Bridgenorth, therefore, as the delegate and representative
of his party, was bound to stand firm against all entreaty, and the lady
became greatly embarrassed. She now regretted sincerely that her
well-intended invitation had ever been given, for she foresaw that its
rejection was to awaken all former subjects of quarrel, and perhaps to
lead to new violences amongst people who had not many years since been
engaged in civil war. To yield up the disputed point to the Presbyterians,
would have been to offend the Cavalier party, and Sir Geoffrey in
particular, in the most mortal degree; for they made it as firm a point of
honour to give healths, and compel others to pledge them, as the Puritans
made it a deep article of religion to refuse both. At length the lady
changed the discourse, introduced that of Major Bridgenorth's child,
caused it to be sent for, and put into his arms. The mother's stratagem
took effect; for, though the parliamentary major stood firm, the father,
as in the case of the Governor of Tilbury, was softened, and he agreed
that his friends should accept a compromise. This was, that the major
himself, the reverend divine, and such of their friends as held strict
Puritan tenets, should form a separate party in the Large Parlour, while
the Hall should be occupied by the jovial Cavaliers; and that each party
should regulate their potations after their own conscience, or after their
own fashion.

Major Bridgenorth himself seemed greatly relieved after this important
matter had been settled. He had held it matter of conscience to be
stubborn in maintaining his own opinion, but was heartily glad when he
escaped from the apparently inevitable necessity of affronting Lady
Peveril by the refusal of her invitation. He remained longer than usual,
and spoke and smiled more than was his custom. His first care on his
return was to announce to the clergyman and his congregation the
compromise which he had made, and this not as a matter for deliberation,
but one upon which he had already resolved; and such was his authority
among them, that though the preacher longed to pronounce a separation of
the parties, and to exclaim—"To your tents, O Israel!" he did not
see the chance of being seconded by so many, as would make it worth while
to disturb the unanimous acquiescence in their delegate's proposal.

Nevertheless, each party being put upon the alert by the consequences of
Major Bridgenorth's embassy, so many points of doubt and delicate
discussion were started in succession, that the Lady Peveril, the only
person, perhaps, who was desirous of achieving an effectual reconciliation
between them, incurred, in reward for her good intentions, the censure of
both factions, and had much reason to regret her well-meant project of
bringing the Capulets and Montagues of Derbyshire together on the same
occasion of public festivity.

As it was now settled that the guests were to form two different parties,
it became not only a subject of dispute betwixt themselves, which should
be first admitted within the Castle of Martindale, but matter of serious
apprehension to Lady Peveril and Major Bridgenorth, lest, if they were to
approach by the same avenue and entrance, a quarrel might take place
betwixt them, and proceed to extremities, even before they reached the
place of entertainment. The lady believed she had discovered an admirable
expedient for preventing the possibility of such interference, by
directing that the Cavaliers should be admitted by the principal entrance,
while the Roundheads should enter the Castle through a great breach which
had been made in the course of the siege, and across which there had been
made a sort of by-path to drive the cattle down to their pasture in the
wood. By this contrivance the Lady Peveril imagined she had altogether
avoided the various risks which might occur from two such parties
encountering each other, and disputing for precedence. Several other
circumstances of less importance were adjusted at the same time, and
apparently so much to the satisfaction of the Presbyterian teacher, that,
in a long lecture on the subject of the Marriage Garment, he was at the
pains to explain to his hearers, that outward apparel was not alone meant
by that scriptural expression, but also a suitable frame of mind for
enjoyment of peaceful festivity; and therefore he exhorted the brethren,
that whatever might be the errors of the poor blinded malignants, with
whom they were in some sort to eat and drink upon the morrow they ought
not on this occasion to show any evil will against them, lest they should
therein become troublers of the peace of Israel.

Honest Doctor Dummerar, the elected Episcopal Vicar of Martindale cum
Moultrassie, preached to the Cavaliers on the same subject. He had served
the cure before the breaking out of the rebellion, and was in high favour
with Sir Geoffrey, not merely on account of his sound orthodoxy and deep
learning, but his exquisite skill in playing at bowls, and his facetious
conversation over a pipe and tankard of October. For these latter
accomplishments, the Doctor had the honour to be recorded by old Century
White amongst the roll of lewd, incompetent, profligate clergymen of the
Church of England, whom he denounced to God and man, on account chiefly of
the heinous sin of playing at games of skill and chance, and of
occasionally joining in the social meetings of their parishioners. When
the King's party began to lose ground, Doctor Dummerar left his vicarage,
and, betaking himself to the camp, showed upon several occasions, when
acting as chaplain to Sir Geoffrey Peveril's regiment, that his portly
bodily presence included a stout and masculine heart. When all was lost,
and he himself, with most other loyal divines, was deprived of his living,
he made such shift as he could; now lurking in the garrets of old friends
in the University, who shared with him, and such as him, the slender means
of livelihood which the evil times had left them; and now lying hid in the
houses of the oppressed and sequestered gentry, who respected at once his
character and sufferings. When the Restoration took place, Doctor Dummerar
emerged from some one of his hiding-places, and hied him to Martindale
Castle, to enjoy the triumph inseparable from this happy change.

His appearance at the Castle in his full clerical dress, and the warm
reception which he received from the neighbouring gentry, added not a
little to the alarm which was gradually extending itself through the party
which were so lately the uppermost. It is true, Doctor Dummerar framed
(honest worthy man) no extravagant views of elevation or preferment; but
the probability of his being replaced in the living, from which he had
been expelled under very flimsy pretences, inferred a severe blow to the
Presbyterian divine, who could not be considered otherwise than as an
intruder. The interest of the two preachers, therefore, as well as the
sentiments of their flocks, were at direct variance; and here was another
fatal objection in the way of Lady Peveril's scheme of a general and
comprehensive healing ordinance.

Nevertheless, as we have already hinted, Doctor Dummerar behaved as
handsomely upon the occasion as the Presbyterian incumbent had done. It is
true, that in a sermon which he preached in the Castle hall to several of
the most distinguished Cavalier families, besides a world of boys from the
village, who went to see the novel circumstance of a parson in a cassock
and surplice, he went at great length into the foulness of the various
crimes committed by the rebellious party during the late evil times, and
greatly magnified the merciful and peaceful nature of the honourable Lady
of the Manor, who condescended to look upon, or receive into her house in
the way of friendship and hospitality, men holding the principles which
had led to the murder of the King—the slaying and despoiling his
loyal subjects—and the plundering and breaking down of the Church of
God. But then he wiped all this handsomely up again, with the observation,
that since it was the will of their gracious and newly-restored Sovereign,
and the pleasure of the worshipful Lady Peveril, that this contumacious
and rebellious race should be, for a time, forborne by their faithful
subjects, it would be highly proper that all the loyal liegemen should,
for the present, eschew subjects of dissension or quarrel with these sons
of Shimei; which lesson of patience he enforced by the comfortable
assurance, that they could not long abstain from their old rebellious
practices; in which case, the Royalists would stand exculpated before God
and man, in extirpating them from the face of the earth.

The close observers of the remarkable passages of the times from which we
draw the events of our history, have left it upon record, that these two
several sermons, much contrary, doubtless, to the intention of the worthy
divines by whom they were delivered, had a greater effect in exasperating,
than in composing, the disputes betwixt the two factions. Under such evil
auspices, and with corresponding forebodings on the mind of Lady Peveril,
the day of festivity at length arrived.

By different routes, and forming each a sort of procession, as if the
adherents of each party were desirous of exhibiting its strength and
numbers, the two several factions approached Martindale Castle; and so
distinct did they appear in dress, aspect, and manners, that it seemed as
if the revellers of a bridal party, and the sad attendants upon a funeral
solemnity, were moving towards the same point from different quarters.

The puritanical party was by far the fewer in numbers, for which two
excellent reasons might be given. In the first place, they had enjoyed
power for several years, and, of course, became unpopular among the common
people, never at any time attached to those, who, being in the immediate
possession of authority, are often obliged to employ it in controlling
their humours. Besides, the country people of England had, and still have,
an animated attachment to field sports, and a natural unrestrained
joviality of disposition, which rendered them impatient under the severe
discipline of the fanatical preachers; while they were not less naturally
discontented with the military despotism of Cromwell's Major-Generals.
Secondly, the people were fickle as usual, and the return of the King had
novelty in it, and was therefore popular. The side of the Puritans was
also deserted at this period by a numerous class of more thinking and
prudential persons, who never forsook them till they became unfortunate.
These sagacious personages were called in that age the Waiters upon
Providence, and deemed it a high delinquency towards Heaven if they
afforded countenance to any cause longer than it was favoured by fortune.

But, though thus forsaken by the fickle and the selfish, a solemn
enthusiasm, a stern and determined depth of principle, a confidence in the
sincerity of their own motives, and the manly English pride which inclined
them to cling to their former opinions, like the traveller in the fable to
his cloak, the more strongly that the tempest blew around them, detained
in the ranks of the Puritans many, who, if no longer formidable from
numbers, were still so from their character. They consisted chiefly of the
middling gentry, with others whom industry or successful speculations in
commerce or in mining had raised into eminence—the persons who feel
most umbrage from the overshadowing aristocracy, and are usually the most
vehement in defence of what they hold to be their rights. Their dress was
in general studiously simple and unostentatious, or only remarkable by the
contradictory affectation of extreme simplicity or carelessness. The dark
colour of their cloaks, varying from absolute black to what was called
sad-coloured—their steeple-crowned hats, with their broad shadowy
brims—their long swords, suspended by a simple strap around the
loins, without shoulder-belt, sword-knot, plate, buckles, or any of the
other decorations with which the Cavaliers loved to adorn their trusty
rapiers,—the shortness of their hair, which made their ears appear
of disproportioned size,—above all, the stern and gloomy gravity of
their looks, announced their belonging to that class of enthusiasts, who,
resolute and undismayed, had cast down the former fabric of government,
and who now regarded with somewhat more than suspicion, that which had
been so unexpectedly substituted in its stead. There was gloom in their
countenances; but it was not that of dejection, far less of despair. They
looked like veterans after a defeat, which may have checked their career
and wounded their pride, but has left their courage undiminished.

The melancholy, now become habitual, which overcast Major Bridgenorth's
countenance, well qualified him to act as the chief of the group who now
advanced from the village. When they reached the point by which they were
first to turn aside into the wood which surrounded the Castle, they felt a
momentary impression of degradation, as if they were yielding the high
road to their old and oft-defeated enemies the Cavaliers. When they began
to ascend the winding path, which had been the daily passage of the
cattle, the opening of the wooded glade gave them a view of the Castle
ditch, half choked with the rubbish of the breach, and of the breach
itself, which was made at the angle of a large square flanking-tower,
one-half of which had been battered into ruins, while the other fragment
remained in a state strangely shattered and precarious, and seemed to be
tottering above the huge aperture in the wall. A stern still smile was
exchanged among the Puritans, as the sight reminded them of the victories
of former days. Holdfast Clegg, a millwright of Derby, who had been
himself active at the siege, pointed to the breach, and said, with a grim
smile to Mr. Solsgrace, "I little thought, that when my own hand helped to
level the cannon which Oliver pointed against yon tower, we should have
been obliged to climb like foxes up the very walls which we won by our bow
and by our spear. Methought these malignants had then enough of shutting
their gates and making high their horn against us."

"Be patient, my brother," said Solsgrace; "be patient, and let not thy
soul be disquieted. We enter not this high place dishonourably, seeing we
ascend by the gate which the Lord opened to the godly."

The words of the pastor were like a spark to gunpowder. The countenances
of the mournful retinue suddenly expanded, and, accepting what had fallen
from him as an omen and a light from heaven how they were to interpret
their present situation, they uplifted, with one consent, one of the
triumphant songs in which the Israelites celebrated the victories which
had been vouchsafed to them over the heathen inhabitants of the Promised
Land:—

"Let God arise, and then His foes
Shall turn themselves to flight,
His enemies for fear shall run,
And scatter out of sight;
And as wax melts before the fire,
And wind blows smoke away,
So in the presence of the Lord,
The wicked shall decay.
God's army twenty thousand is,
Of angels bright and strong,
The Lord also in Sinai
Is present them among.
Thou didst, O Lord, ascend on high,
And captive led'st them all,
Who, in times past, Thy chosen flock
In bondage did enthral."

These sounds of devotional triumph reached the joyous band of the
Cavaliers, who, decked in whatever pomp their repeated misfortunes and
impoverishment had left them, were moving towards the same point, though
by a different road, and were filling the principal avenue to the Castle,
with tiptoe mirth and revelry. The two parties were strongly contrasted;
for, during that period of civil dissension, the manners of the different
factions distinguished them as completely as separate uniforms might have
done. If the Puritan was affectedly plain in his dress, and ridiculously
precise in his manners, the Cavalier often carried his love of ornament
into tawdry finery, and his contempt of hypocrisy into licentious
profligacy. Gay gallant fellows, young and old, thronged together towards
the ancient Castle, with general and joyous manifestation of those
spirits, which, as they had been buoyant enough to support their owners
during the worst of times, as they termed Oliver's usurpation, were now so
inflated as to transport them nearly beyond the reach of sober reason.
Feathers waved, lace glittered, spears jingled, steeds caracoled; and here
and there a petronel, or pistol, was fired off by some one, who found his
own natural talents for making a noise inadequate to the dignity of the
occasion. Boys—for, as we said before, the rabble were with the
uppermost party, as usual—halloo'd and whooped, "Down with the
Rump," and "Fie upon Oliver!" Musical instruments, of as many different
fashions as were then in use, played all at once, and without any regard
to each other's tune; and the glee of the occasion, while it reconciled
the pride of the high-born of the party to fraternise with the general
rout, derived an additional zest from the conscious triumph, that their
exultation was heard by their neighbours, the crestfallen Roundheads.

When the loud and sonorous swell of the psalm-tune, multiplied by all the
echoes of the cliffs and ruinous halls, came full upon their ear, as if to
warn them how little they were to reckon upon the depression of their
adversaries, at first it was answered with a scornful laugh, raised to as
much height as the scoffers' lungs would permit, in order that it might
carry to the psalmodists the contempt of their auditors; but this was a
forced exertion of party spleen. There is something in melancholy feelings
more natural to an imperfect and suffering state than in those of gaiety,
and when they are brought into collision, the former seldom fail to
triumph. If a funeral-train and wedding-procession were to meet
unexpectedly, it will readily be allowed that the mirth of the last would
be speedily merged in the gloom of the others. But the Cavaliers,
moreover, had sympathies of a different kind. The psalm-tune, which now
came rolling on their ear, had been heard too often, and upon too many
occasions had preceded victory gained over the malignants, to permit them,
even in their triumph, to hear it without emotion. There was a sort of
pause, of which the party themselves seemed rather ashamed, until the
silence was broken by the stout old knight, Sir Jasper Cranbourne, whose
gallantry was so universally acknowledged, that he could afford, if we may
use such an expression, to confess emotions, which men whose courage was
in any respect liable to suspicion, would have thought it imprudent to
acknowledge.

"Adad," said the old Knight, "may I never taste claret again, if that is
not the very tune with which the prick-eared villains began their onset at
Wiggan Lane, where they trowled us down like so many ninepins! Faith,
neighbours, to say truth, and shame the devil, I did not like the sound of
it above half."

"If I thought the round-headed rogues did it in scorn of us," said Dick
Wildblood of the Dale, "I would cudgel their psalmody out of their
peasantly throats with this very truncheon;" a motion which, being
seconded by old Roger Raine, the drunken tapster of the Peveril Arms in
the village, might have brought on a general battle, but that Sir Jasper
forbade the feud.

"We'll have no ranting, Dick," said the old Knight to the young Franklin;
"adad, man, we'll have none, for three reasons: first, because it would be
ungentle to Lady Peveril; then, because it is against the King's peace;
and, lastly, Dick, because if we did set on the psalm-singing knaves, thou
mightest come by the worst, my boy, as has chanced to thee before."

"Who, I! Sir Jasper?" answered Dick—"I come by the worst!—I'll
be d—d if it ever happened but in that accursed lane, where we had
no more flank, front, or rear, than if we had been so many herrings in a
barrel."

"That was the reason, I fancy," answered Sir Jasper, "that you, to mend
the matter, scrambled into the hedge, and stuck there, horse and man, till
I beat thee through it with my leading-staff; and then, instead of
charging to the front, you went right-about, and away as fast as your feet
would carry you."

This reminiscence produced a laugh at Dick's expense, who was known, or at
least suspected, to have more tongue in his head than mettle in his bosom.
And this sort of rallying on the part of the Knight having fortunately
abated the resentment which had begun to awaken in the breasts of the
royalist cavalcade, farther cause for offence was removed, by the sudden
ceasing of the sounds which they had been disposed to interpret into those
of premeditated insult.

This was owing to the arrival of the Puritans at the bottom of the large
and wide breach, which had been formerly made in the wall of the Castle by
their victorious cannon. The sight of its gaping heaps of rubbish, and
disjointed masses of building, up which slowly winded a narrow and steep
path, such as is made amongst ancient ruins by the rare passage of those
who occasionally visit them, was calculated, when contrasted with the grey
and solid massiveness of the towers and curtains which yet stood
uninjured, to remind them of their victory over the stronghold of their
enemies, and how they had bound nobles and princes with fetters of iron.

But feelings more suitable to the purpose of their visit to Martindale
Castle, were awakened in the bosoms even of these stern sectaries, when
the Lady of the Castle, still in the very prime of beauty and of
womanhood, appeared at the top of the breach with her principal female
attendants, to receive her guests with the honour and courtesy becoming
her invitation. She had laid aside the black dress which had been her sole
attire for several years, and was arrayed with a splendour not unbecoming
her high descent and quality. Jewels, indeed, she had none; but her long
and dark hair was surmounted with a chaplet made of oak leaves,
interspersed with lilies; the former being the emblem of the King's
preservation in the Royal Oak, and the latter of his happy Restoration.
What rendered her presence still more interesting to those who looked on
her, was the presence of the two children whom she held in either hand;
one of whom was well known to them all to be the child of their leader,
Major Bridgenorth, who had been restored to life and health by the almost
maternal care of the Lady Peveril.

If even the inferior persons of the party felt the healing influence of
her presence, thus accompanied, poor Bridgenorth was almost overwhelmed
with it. The strictness of his cast and manners permitted him not to sink
on his knee, and kiss the hand which held his little orphan; but the
deepness of his obeisance—the faltering tremor of his voice—and
the glistening of his eye, showed a grateful respect for the lady whom he
addressed, deeper and more reverential than could have been expressed even
by Persian prostration. A few courteous and mild words, expressive of the
pleasure she found in once more seeing her neighbours as her friends—a
few kind inquiries, addressed to the principal individuals among her
guests, concerning their families and connections, completed her triumph
over angry thoughts and dangerous recollections, and disposed men's bosoms
to sympathise with the purposes of the meeting.

Even Solsgrace himself, although imagining himself bound by his office and
duty to watch over and counteract the wiles of the "Amalekitish woman,"
did not escape the sympathetic infection; being so much struck with the
marks of peace and good-will exhibited by Lady Peveril, that he
immediately raised the psalm—

"O what a happy thing it is,
And joyful, for to see
Brethren to dwell together in
Friendship and unity!"

Accepting this salutation as a mark of courtesy repaid, the Lady Peveril
marshalled in person this party of her guests to the apartment, where
ample good cheer was provided for them; and had even the patience to
remain while Master Nehemiah Solsgrace pronounced a benediction of
portentous length, as an introduction to the banquet. Her presence was in
some measure a restraint on the worthy divine, whose prolusion lasted the
longer, and was the more intricate and embarrassed, that he felt himself
debarred from rounding it off by his usual alliterative petition for
deliverance from Popery, Prelacy, and Peveril of the Peak, which had
become so habitual to him, that, after various attempts to conclude with
some other form of words, he found himself at last obliged to pronounce
the first words of his usual formula aloud, and mutter the rest in
such a manner as not to be intelligible even by those who stood nearest to
him.

The minister's silence was followed by all the various sounds which
announce the onset of a hungry company on a well-furnished table; and at
the same time gave the lady an opportunity to leave the apartment, and
look to the accommodation of her other company. She felt, indeed, that it
was high time to do so; and that the royalist guests might be disposed to
misapprehend, or even to resent, the prior attentions which she had
thought it prudent to offer to the Puritans.

These apprehensions were not altogether ill-founded. It was in vain that
the steward had displayed the royal standard, with its proud motto of Tandem
Triumphans, on one of the great towers which flanked the main entrance
of the Castle; while, from the other, floated the banner of Peveril of the
Peak, under which many of those who now approached had fought during all
the vicissitudes of civil war. It was in vain he repeated his clamorous
"Welcome, noble Cavaliers! welcome, generous gentlemen!" There was a
slight murmur amongst them, that their welcome ought to have come from the
mouth of the Colonel's lady—not from that of a menial. Sir Jasper
Cranbourne, who had sense as well as spirit and courage, and who was aware
of his fair cousin's motives, having been indeed consulted by her upon all
the arrangements which she had adopted, saw matters were in such a state
that no time ought to be lost in conducting the guests to the banqueting
apartment, where a fortunate diversion from all these topics of rising
discontent might be made, at the expense of the good cheer of all sorts,
which the lady's care had so liberally provided.

The stratagem of the old soldier succeeded in its utmost extent. He
assumed the great oaken-chair usually occupied by the steward at his
audits; and Dr. Dummerar having pronounced a brief Latin benediction
(which was not the less esteemed by the hearers that none of them
understood it), Sir Jasper exhorted the company to wet their appetites to
the dinner by a brimming cup to his Majesty's health, filled as high and
as deep as their goblets would permit. In a moment all was bustle, with
the clank of wine-cups and of flagons. In another moment the guests were
on their feet like so many statues, all hushed as death, but with eyes
glancing with expectation, and hands outstretched, which displayed their
loyal brimmers. The voice of Sir Jasper, clear, sonorous, and emphatic, as
the sound of his war-trumpet, announced the health of the restored
Monarch, hastily echoed back by the assemblage, impatient to render it due
homage. Another brief pause was filled by the draining of their cups, and
the mustering breath to join in a shout so loud, that not only the rafters
of the old hall trembled while they echoed it back, but the garlands of
oaken boughs and flowers with which they were decorated, waved wildly, and
rustled as if agitated by a sudden whirlwind. This rite observed, the
company proceeded to assail the good cheer with which the table groaned,
animated as they were to the attack both by mirth and melody, for they
were attended by all the minstrels of the district, who, like the
Episcopal clergy, had been put to silence during the reign of the
self-entitled saints of the Commonwealth. The social occupation of good
eating and drinking, the exchange of pledges betwixt old neighbours who
had been fellow-soldiers in the moment of resistance—fellow-sufferers
in the time of depression and subjugation, and were now partners in the
same general subject of congratulation, soon wiped from their memory the
trifling cause of complaint, which in the minds of some had darkened the
festivity of the day; so that when the Lady Peveril walked into the hall,
accompanied as before with the children and her female attendants, she was
welcomed with the acclamations due to the mistress of the banquet and of
the Castle—the dame of the noble Knight, who had led most of them to
battle with an undaunted and persevering valour, which was worthy of
better success.

Her address to them was brief and matronly, yet spoken with so much
feeling as found its way to every bosom. She apologised for the lateness
of her personal welcome, by reminding them that there were then present in
Martindale Castle that day, persons whom recent happy events had converted
from enemies into friends, but on whom the latter character was so
recently imposed, that she dared not neglect with them any point of
ceremonial. But those whom she now addressed, were the best, the dearest
the most faithful friends of her husband's house, to whom and to their
valour Peveril had not only owed those successes, which had given them and
him fame during the late unhappy times, but to whose courage she in
particular had owed the preservation of their leader's life, even when it
could not avert defeat. A word or two of heartfelt authority, completed
all which she had boldness to add, and, bowing gracefully round her, she
lifted a cup to her lips as if to welcome her guests.

There still remained, and especially amongst the old Cavaliers of the
period, some glimmering of that spirit which inspired Froissart, when he
declares that a knight hath double courage at need, when animated by the
looks and words of a beautiful and virtuous woman. It was not until the
reign which was commencing at the moment we are treating of, that the
unbounded licence of the age, introducing a general course of profligacy,
degraded the female sex into mere servants of pleasure, and, in so doing,
deprived society of that noble tone of feeling towards the sex, which,
considered as a spur to "raise the clear spirit," is superior to every
other impulse, save those of religion and of patriotism. The beams of the
ancient hall of Martindale Castle instantly rang with a shout louder and
shriller than that at which they had so lately trembled, and the names of
the Knight of the Peak and his lady were proclaimed amid waving of caps
and hats, and universal wishes for their health and happiness.

Under these auspices the Lady Peveril glided from the hall, and left free
space for the revelry of the evening.

That of the Cavaliers may be easily conceived, since it had the usual
accompaniments of singing, jesting, quaffing of healths, and playing of
tunes, which have in almost every age and quarter of the world been the
accompaniments of festive cheer. The enjoyments of the Puritans were of a
different and less noisy character. They neither sung, jested, heard
music, nor drank healths; and yet they seemed not the less, in their own
phrase, to enjoy the creature-comforts, which the frailty of humanity
rendered grateful to their outward man. Old Whitaker even protested, that,
though much the smaller party in point of numbers, they discussed nearly
as much sack and claret as his own more jovial associates. But those who
considered the steward's prejudices, were inclined to think, that, in
order to produce such a result, he must have thrown in his own
by-drinkings—no inconsiderable item—to the sum total of the
Presbyterian potations.

Without adopting such a partial and scandalous report, we shall only say,
that on this occasion, as on most others, the rareness of indulgence
promoted the sense of enjoyment, and that those who made abstinence, or at
least moderation, a point of religious principle, enjoyed their social
meeting the better that such opportunities rarely presented themselves. If
they did not actually drink each other's healths, they at least showed, by
looking and nodding to each other as they raised their glasses, that they
all were sharing the same festive gratification of the appetite, and felt
it enhanced, because it was at the same time enjoyed by their friends and
neighbours. Religion, as it was the principal topic of their thoughts,
became also the chief subject of their conversation, and as they sat
together in small separate knots, they discussed doctrinal and
metaphysical points of belief, balanced the merits of various preachers,
compared the creeds of contending sects, and fortified by scriptural
quotations those which they favoured. Some contests arose in the course of
these debates, which might have proceeded farther than was seemly, but for
the cautious interference of Major Bridgenorth. He suppressed also, in the
very bud, a dispute betwixt Gaffer Hodgeson of Charnelycot and the
Reverend Mr. Solsgrace, upon the tender subject of lay-preaching and
lay-ministering; nor did he think it altogether prudent or decent to
indulge the wishes of some of the warmer enthusiasts of the party, who
felt disposed to make the rest partakers of their gifts in extemporaneous
prayer and exposition. These were absurdities that belonged to the time,
which, however, the Major had sense enough to perceive were unfitted,
whether the offspring of hypocrisy or enthusiasm, for the present time and
place.

The Major was also instrumental in breaking up the party at an early and
decorous hour, so that they left the Castle long before their rivals, the
Cavaliers, had reached the springtide of their merriment; an arrangement
which afforded the greatest satisfaction to the lady, who dreaded the
consequences which might not improbably have taken place, had both parties
met at the same period and point of retreat.

It was near midnight ere the greater part of the Cavaliers, meaning such
as were able to effect their departure without assistance, withdrew to the
village of Martindale Moultrassie, with the benefit of the broad moon to
prevent the chance of accidents. Their shouts, and the burden of their
roaring chorus of—

"The King shall enjoy his own again!"

were heard with no small pleasure by the lady, heartily glad that the riot
of the day was over without the occurrence of any unpleasing accident. The
rejoicing was not, however, entirely ended; for the elevated Cavaliers,
finding some of the villagers still on foot around a bonfire on the
street, struck merrily in with them—sent to Roger Raine of the
Peveril Arms, the loyal publican whom we have already mentioned, for two
tubs of merry stingo (as it was termed), and lent their own powerful
assistance at the dusting it off to the health of the King and the
loyal General Monk. Their shouts for a long time disturbed, and even
alarmed, the little village; but no enthusiasm is able to withstand for
ever the natural consequences of late hours, and potations pottle-deep.
The tumult of the exulting Royalists at last sunk into silence, and the
moon and the owl were left in undisturbed sovereignty over the old tower
of the village church, which, rising white above a circle of knotty oaks,
was tenanted by the bird, and silvered by the planet.

CHAPTER V

'Twas when they raised, 'mid sap and siege,
The banners of their rightful liege,
At their she-captain's call,
Who, miracle of womankind!
Lent mettle to the meanest hind
That mann'd her castle wall.
—WILLIAM S. ROSE.

On the morning succeeding the feast, the Lady Peveril, fatigued with the
exertions and the apprehensions of the former day, kept her apartment for
two or three hours later than her own active habits, and the matutinal
custom of the time, rendered usual. Meanwhile, Mistress Ellesmere, a
person of great trust in the family, and who assumed much authority in her
mistress's absence, laid her orders upon Deborah, the governante,
immediately to carry the children to their airing in the park, and not to
let any one enter the gilded chamber, which was usually their
sporting-place. Deborah, who often rebelled, and sometimes successfully,
against the deputed authority of Ellesmere, privately resolved that it was
about to rain, and that the gilded chamber was a more suitable place for
the children's exercise than the wet grass of the park on a raw morning.

But a woman's brain is sometimes as inconstant as a popular assembly; and
presently after she had voted the morning was like to be rainy, and that
the gilded chamber was the fittest play-room for the children, Mistress
Deborah came to the somewhat inconsistent resolution, that the park was
the fittest place for her own morning walk. It is certain, that during the
unrestrained joviality of the preceding evening, she had danced till
midnight with Lance Outram the park-keeper; but how far the seeing him
just pass the window in his woodland trim, with a feather in his hat, and
a crossbow under his arm, influenced the discrepancy of the opinions
Mistress Deborah formed concerning the weather, we are far from presuming
to guess. It is enough for us, that, so soon as Mistress Ellesmere's back
was turned, Mistress Deborah carried the children into the gilded chamber,
not without a strict charge (for we must do her justice) to Master Julian
to take care of his little wife, Mistress Alice; and then, having taken so
satisfactory a precaution, she herself glided into the park by the
glass-door of the still-room, which was nearly opposite to the great
breach.

The gilded chamber in which the children were, by this arrangement, left
to amuse themselves, without better guardianship than what Julian's
manhood afforded, was a large apartment, hung with stamped Spanish
leather, curiously gilded, representing, in a manner now obsolete, but far
from unpleasing, a series of tilts and combats betwixt the Saracens of
Grenada, and the Spaniards under the command of King Ferdinand and Queen
Isabella, during that memorable siege, which was terminated by the
overthrow of the last fragments of the Moorish empire in Spain.

The little Julian was careering about the room for the amusement of his
infant friend, as well as his own, mimicking with a reed the menacing
attitude of the Abencerrages and Zegris engaged in the Eastern sport of
hurling the JERID, or javelin; and at times sitting down beside her, and
caressing her into silence and good humour, when the petulant or timid
child chose to become tired of remaining an inactive spectator of his
boisterous sport; when, on a sudden, he observed one of the panelled
compartments of the leather hangings slide apart, so as to show a fair
hand, with its fingers resting upon its edge, prepared, it would seem, to
push it still farther back. Julian was much surprised, and somewhat
frightened, at what he witnessed, for the tales of the nursery had
strongly impressed on his mind the terrors of the invisible world. Yet,
naturally bold and high-spirited, the little champion placed himself
beside his defenceless sister, continuing to brandish his weapon in her
defence, as boldly as he had himself been an Abencerrage of Grenada.

The panel, on which his eye was fixed, gradually continued to slide back,
and display more and more the form to which the hand appertained, until,
in the dark aperture which was disclosed, the children saw the figure of a
lady in a mourning dress, past the meridian of life, but whose countenance
still retained traces of great beauty, although the predominant character
both of her features and person was an air of almost royal dignity. After
pausing a moment on the threshold of the portal which she had thus
unexpectedly disclosed, and looking with some surprise at the children,
whom she had not probably observed while engaged with the management of
the panel, the stranger stepped into the apartment, and the panel, upon a
touch of a spring, closed behind her so suddenly, that Julian almost
doubted it had ever been open, and began to apprehend that the whole
apparition had been a delusion.

The stately lady, however, advanced to him, and said, "Are not you the
little Peveril?"

"Yes," said the boy, reddening, not altogether without a juvenile feeling
of that rule of chivalry which forbade any one to disown his name,
whatever danger might be annexed to the avowal of it.

"Then," said the stately stranger, "go to your mother's room, and tell her
to come instantly to speak with me."

"I wo'not," said the little Julian.

"How?" said the lady,—"so young and so disobedient?—but you do
but follow the fashion of the time. Why will you not go, my pretty boy,
when I ask it of you as a favour?"

"I would go, madam," said the boy, "but"—and he stopped short, still
drawing back as the lady advanced on him, but still holding by the hand
Alice Bridgenorth, who, too young to understand the nature of the
dialogue, clung, trembling, to her companion.

The stranger saw his embarrassment, smiled, and remained standing fast,
while she asked the child once more, "What are you afraid of, my brave boy—and
why should you not go to your mother on my errand?"

"You are a gallant fellow," said the lady, "and will not disgrace your
blood, which never left the weak without protection."

The boy understood her not, and still gazed with anxious apprehension,
first on her who addressed him, and then upon his little companion, whose
eyes, with the vacant glance of infancy, wandered from the figure of the
lady to that of her companion and protector, and at length, infected by a
portion of the fear which the latter's magnanimous efforts could not
entirely conceal, she flew into Julian's arms, and, clinging to him,
greatly augmented his alarm, and by screaming aloud, rendered it very
difficult for him to avoid the sympathetic fear which impelled him to do
the same.

There was something in the manner and bearing of this unexpected inmate
which might justify awe at least, if not fear, when joined to the singular
and mysterious mode in which she had made her appearance. Her dress was
not remarkable, being the hood and female riding attire of the time, such
as was worn by the inferior class of gentlewomen; but her black hair was
very long, and, several locks having escaped from under her hood, hung
down dishevelled on her neck and shoulders. Her eyes were deep black,
keen, and piercing, and her features had something of a foreign
expression. When she spoke, her language was marked by a slight foreign
accent, although, in construction, it was pure English. Her slightest tone
and gesture had the air of one accustomed to command and to be obeyed; the
recollection of which probably suggested to Julian the apology he
afterwards made for being frightened, that he took the stranger for an
"enchanted queen."

While the stranger lady and the children thus confronted each other, two
persons entered almost at the same instant, but from different doors,
whose haste showed that they had been alarmed by the screams of the
latter.

The first was Major Bridgenorth, whose ears had been alarmed with the
cries of his child, as he entered the hall, which corresponded with what
was called the gilded chamber. His intention had been to remain in the
more public apartment, until the Lady Peveril should make her appearance,
with the good-natured purpose of assuring her that the preceding day of
tumult had passed in every respect agreeably to his friends, and without
any of those alarming consequences which might have been apprehended from
a collision betwixt the parties. But when it is considered how severely he
had been agitated by apprehensions for his child's safety and health, too
well justified by the fate of those who had preceded her, it will not be
thought surprising that the infantine screams of Alice induced him to
break through the barriers of form, and intrude farther into the interior
of the house than a sense of strict propriety might have warranted.

He burst into the gilded chamber, therefore, by a side-door and narrow
passage, which communicated betwixt that apartment and the hall, and,
snatching the child up in his arms, endeavoured, by a thousand caresses,
to stifle the screams which burst yet more violently from the little girl,
on beholding herself in the arms of one to whose voice and manner she was,
but for one brief interview, an entire stranger.

Of course, Alice's shrieks were redoubled, and seconded by those of Julian
Peveril, who, on the appearance of this second intruder, was frightened
into resignation of every more manly idea of rescue than that which
consisted in invoking assistance at the very top of his lungs.

Alarmed by this noise, which in half a minute became very clamorous, Lady
Peveril, with whose apartment the gilded chamber was connected by a
private door of communication opening into her wardrobe, entered on the
scene. The instant she appeared, the little Alice, extricating herself
from the grasp of her father, ran towards her protectress, and when
she had once taken hold of her skirts, not only became silent, but turned
her large blue eyes, in which the tears were still glistening, with a look
of wonder rather than alarm, towards the strange lady. Julian manfully
brandished his reed, a weapon which he had never parted with during the
whole alarm, and stood prepared to assist his mother if there should be
danger in the encounter betwixt her and the stranger.

In fact, it might have puzzled an older person to account for the sudden
and confused pause which the Lady Peveril made, as she gazed on her
unexpected guest, as if dubious whether she did, or did not recognise, in
her still beautiful though wasted and emaciated features, a countenance
which she had known well under far different circumstances.

The stranger seemed to understand the cause of hesitation, for she said in
that heart-thrilling voice which was peculiarly her own—

"Time and misfortune have changed me much, Margaret—that every
mirror tells me—yet methinks, Margaret Stanley might still have
known Charlotte de la Tremouille."

The Lady Peveril was little in the custom of giving way to sudden emotion,
but in the present case she threw herself on her knees in a rapture of
mingled joy and grief, and, half embracing those of the stranger,
exclaimed, in broken language—

The Countess raised the suppliant kinswoman of her husband's house, with
all the grace of one accustomed from early birth to receive homage and to
grant protection. She kissed the Lady Peveril's forehead, and passed her
hand in a caressing manner over her face as she said—

"You too are changed, my fair cousin, but it is a change becomes you, from
a pretty and timid maiden to a sage and comely matron. But my own memory,
which I once held a good one, has failed me strangely, if this gentleman
be Sir Geoffrey Peveril."

"A kind and good neighbour only, madam," said Lady Peveril; "Sir Geoffrey
is at Court."

"I understood so much," said the Countess of Derby, "when I arrived here
last night."

"How, madam!" said Lady Peveril—"Did you arrive at Martindale Castle—at
the house of Margaret Stanley, where you have such right to command, and
did not announce your presence to her?"

"Oh, I know you are a dutiful subject, Margaret," answered the Countess,
"though it be in these days a rare character—but it was our
pleasure," she added, with a smile, "to travel incognito—and finding
you engaged in general hospitality, we desired not to disturb you with our
royal presence."

"But how and where were you lodged, madam?" said Lady Peveril; "or why
should you have kept secret a visit which would, if made, have augmented
tenfold the happiness of every true heart that rejoiced here yesterday?"

"My lodging was well cared for by Ellesmere—your Ellesmere now, as
she was formerly mine—she has acted as quartermaster ere now, you
know, and on a broader scale; you must excuse her—she had my
positive order to lodge me in the most secret part of your Castle"—(here
she pointed to the sliding panel)—"she obeyed orders in that, and I
suppose also in sending you now hither."

"Indeed I have not yet seen her," said the lady, "and therefore was
totally ignorant of a visit so joyful, so surprising."

"And I," said the Countess, "was equally surprised to find none but these
beautiful children in the apartment where I thought I heard you moving.
Our Ellesmere has become silly—your good-nature has spoiled her—she
has forgotten the discipline she learned under me."

"I saw her run through the wood," said the Lady Peveril, after a moment's
recollection, "undoubtedly to seek the person who has charge of the
children, in order to remove them."

"Your own darlings, I doubt not," said the Countess, looking at the
children. "Margaret, Providence has blessed you."

"That is my son," said the Lady Peveril, pointing to Julian, who stood
devouring their discourse with greedy ear; "the little girl—I may
call mine too." Major Bridgenorth, who had in the meantime again taken up
his infant, and was engaged in caressing it, set it down as the Countess
of Derby spoke, sighed deeply, and walked towards the oriel window. He was
well aware that the ordinary rules of courtesy would have rendered it
proper that he should withdraw entirely, or at least offer to do so; but
he was not a man of ceremonious politeness, and he had a particular
interest in the subjects on which the Countess's discourse was likely to
turn, which induced him to dispense with ceremony. The ladies seemed
indeed scarce to notice his presence. The Countess had now assumed a
chair, and motioned to the Lady Peveril to sit upon a stool which was
placed by her side. "We will have old times once more, though there are
here no roaring of rebel guns to drive you to take refuge at my side, and
almost in my pocket."

"I have a gun, madam," said little Julian, "and the park-keeper is to
teach me how to fire it next year."

"I will list you for my soldier, then," said the Countess.

"Ladies have no soldiers," said the boy, looking wistfully at her.

"He has the true masculine contempt of our frail sex, I see," said the
Countess; "it is born with the insolent varlets of mankind, and shows
itself so soon as they are out of their long clothes.—Did Ellesmere
never tell you of Latham House and Charlotte of Derby, my little master?"

"A thousand thousand times," said the boy, colouring; "and how the Queen
of Man defended it six weeks against three thousand Roundheads, under
Rogue Harrison the butcher."

"It was your mother defended Latham House," said the Countess, "not I, my
little soldier—Hadst thou been there, thou hadst been the best
captain of the three."

"Do not say so, madam," said the boy, "for mamma would not touch a gun for
all the universe."

"Not I, indeed, Julian," said his mother; "there I was for certain, but as
useless a part of the garrison——"

"You forget," said the Countess, "you nursed our hospital, and made lint
for the soldiers' wounds."

"But did not papa come to help you?" said Julian.

"Papa came at last," said the Countess, "and so did Prince Rupert—but
not, I think, till they were both heartily wished for.—Do you
remember that morning, Margaret, when the round-headed knaves, that kept
us pent up so long, retreated without bag or baggage, at the first glance
of the Prince's standards appearing on the hill—and how you took
every high-crested captain you saw for Peveril of the Peak, that had been
your partner three months before at the Queen's mask? Nay, never blush for
the thought of it—it was an honest affection—and though it was
the music of trumpets that accompanied you both to the old chapel, which
was almost entirely ruined by the enemy's bullets; and though Prince
Rupert, when he gave you away at the altar, was clad in buff and
bandoleer, with pistols in his belt, yet I trust these warlike signs were
no type of future discord?"

"Heaven has been kind to me," said the Lady Peveril, "in blessing me with
an affectionate husband."

"And in preserving him to you," said the Countess, with a deep sigh;
"while mine, alas! sealed with his blood his devotion to his king[*]—Oh,
had he lived to see this day!"

[*] The Earl of Derby and King in Man was beheaded at Bolton-on-the-
Moors, after having been made prisoner in a previous skirmish in
Wiggan Lane.

"Alas! alas! that he was not permitted!" answered Lady Peveril; "how had
that brave and noble Earl rejoiced in the unhoped-for redemption of our
captivity!"

The Countess looked on Lady Peveril with an air of surprise.

"Thou hast not then heard, cousin, how it stands with our house?—How
indeed had my noble lord wondered, had he been told that the very monarch
for whom he had laid down his noble life on the scaffold at
Bolton-le-Moor, should make it his first act of restored monarchy to
complete the destruction of our property, already well-nigh ruined in the
royal cause, and to persecute me his widow!"

"You astonish me, madam!" said the Lady Peveril. "It cannot be, that you—that
you, the wife of the gallant, the faithful, the murdered Earl—you,
Countess of Derby, and Queen in Man—you, who took on you even the
character of a soldier, and seemed a man when so many men proved women—that
you should sustain evil from the event which has fulfilled—exceeded—the
hopes of every faithful subject—it cannot be!"

"Thou art as simple, I see, in this world's knowledge as ever, my fair
cousin," answered the Countess. "This restoration, which has given others
security, has placed me in danger—this change which relieved other
Royalists, scarce less zealous, I presume to think, than I—has sent
me here a fugitive, and in concealment, to beg shelter and assistance from
you, fair cousin."

"From me," answered the Lady Peveril—"from me, whose youth your
kindness sheltered—from the wife of Peveril, your gallant Lord's
companion in arms—you have a right to command everything; but, alas!
that you should need such assistance as I can render—forgive me, but
it seems like some ill-omened vision of the night—I listen to your
words as if I hoped to be relieved from their painful import by awaking."

"It is indeed a dream—a vision," said the Countess of Derby; "but it
needs no seer to read it—the explanation hath been long since given—Put
not your faith in princes. I can soon remove your surprise.—This
gentleman, your friend, is doubtless honest?"

The Lady Peveril well knew that the Cavaliers, like other factions,
usurped to themselves the exclusive denomination of the honest
party, and she felt some difficulty in explaining that her visitor was not
honest in that sense of the word.

"Had we not better retire, madam?" she said to the Countess, rising, as if
in order to attend her. But the Countess retained her seat.

"It was but a question of habit," she said; "the gentleman's principles
are nothing to me, for what I have to tell you is widely blazed, and I
care not who hears my share of it. You remember—you must have heard,
for I think Margaret Stanley would not be indifferent to my fate—that
after my husband's murder at Bolton, I took up the standard which he never
dropped until his death, and displayed it with my own hand in our
Sovereignty of Man."

"I did indeed hear so, madam," said the Lady Peveril; "and that you had
bidden a bold defiance to the rebel government, even after all other parts
of Britain had submitted to them. My husband, Sir Geoffrey, designed at
one time to have gone to your assistance with some few followers; but we
learned that the island was rendered to the Parliament party, and that
you, dearest lady, were thrown into prison."

"But you heard not," said the Countess, "how that disaster befell me.—Margaret,
I would have held out that island against the knaves as long as the sea
continued to flow around it. Till the shoals which surround it had become
safe anchorage—till its precipices had melted beneath the sunshine—till
of all its strong abodes and castles not one stone remained upon another,—would
I have defended against these villainous hypocritical rebels, my dear
husband's hereditary dominion. The little kingdom of Man should have been
yielded only when not an arm was left to wield a sword, not a finger to
draw a trigger in its defence. But treachery did what force could never
have done. When we had foiled various attempts upon the island by open
force—treason accomplished what Blake and Lawson, with their
floating castles, had found too hazardous an enterprise—a base
rebel, whom we had nursed in our own bosoms, betrayed us to the enemy.
This wretch was named Christian——"

Major Bridgenorth started and turned towards the speaker, but instantly
seemed to recollect himself, and again averted his face. The Countess
proceeded, without noticing the interruption, which, however, rather
surprised Lady Peveril, who was acquainted with her neighbour's general
habits of indifference and apathy, and therefore the more surprised at his
testifying such sudden symptoms of interest. She would once again have
moved the Countess to retire to another apartment, but Lady Derby
proceeded with too much vehemence to endure interruption.

"This Christian," she said, "had eaten of my lord his sovereign's bread,
and drunk of his cup, even from childhood—for his fathers had been
faithful servants to the House of Man and Derby. He himself had fought
bravely by my husband's side, and enjoyed all his confidence; and when my
princely Earl was martyred by the rebels, he recommended to me, amongst
other instructions communicated in the last message I received from him,
to continue my confidence in Christian's fidelity. I obeyed, although I
never loved the man. He was cold and phlegmatic, and utterly devoid of
that sacred fire which is the incentive to noble deeds, suspected, too, of
leaning to the cold metaphysics of Calvinistic subtlety. But he was brave,
wise, and experienced, and, as the event proved, possessed but too much
interest with the islanders. When these rude people saw themselves without
hope of relief, and pressed by a blockade, which brought want and disease
into their island, they began to fall off from the faith which they had
hitherto shown."

"What!" said the Lady Peveril, "could they forget what was due to the
widow of their benefactor—she who had shared with the generous Derby
the task of bettering their condition?"

"Do not blame them," said the Countess; "the rude herd acted but according
to their kind—in present distress they forgot former benefits, and,
nursed in their earthen hovels, with spirits suited to their dwellings,
they were incapable of feeling the glory which is attached to constancy in
suffering. But that Christian should have headed their revolt—that
he, born a gentleman, and bred under my murdered Derby's own care in all
that was chivalrous and noble—that he should have forgot a
hundred benefits—why do I talk of benefits?—that he should
have forgotten that kindly intercourse which binds man to man far more
than the reciprocity of obligation—that he should have headed the
ruffians who broke suddenly into my apartment—immured me with my
infants in one of my own castles, and assumed or usurped the tyranny of
the island—that this should have been done by William Christian, my
vassal, my servant, my friend, was a deed of ungrateful treachery, which
even this age of treason will scarcely parallel!"

"And you were then imprisoned," said the Lady Peveril, "and in your own
sovereignty?"

"For more than seven years I have endured strict captivity," said the
Countess. "I was indeed offered my liberty, and even some means of
support, if I would have consented to leave the island, and pledge my word
that I would not endeavour to repossess my son in his father's rights. But
they little knew the princely house from which I spring—and as
little the royal house of Stanley which I uphold, who hoped to humble
Charlotte of Tremouille into so base a composition. I would rather have
starved in the darkest and lowest vault of Rushin Castle, than have
consented to aught which might diminish in one hair's-breadth the right of
my son over his father's sovereignty!"

"And could not your firmness, in a case where hope seemed lost, induce
them to be generous and dismiss you without conditions?"

"They knew me better than thou dost, wench," answered the Countess; "once
at liberty, I had not been long without the means of disturbing their
usurpation, and Christian would have as soon encaged a lioness to combat
with, as have given me the slightest power of returning to the struggle
with him. But time had liberty and revenge in store—I had still
friends and partisans in the island, though they were compelled to give
way to the storm. Even among the islanders at large, most had been
disappointed in the effects which they expected from the change of power.
They were loaded with exactions by their new masters, their privileges
were abridged, and their immunities abolished, under the pretext of
reducing them to the same condition with the other subjects of the
pretended republic. When the news arrived of the changes which were
current in Britain, these sentiments were privately communicated to me.
Calcott and others acted with great zeal and fidelity; and a rising,
effected as suddenly and effectually as that which had made me a captive,
placed me at liberty and in possession of the sovereignty of Man, as
Regent for my son, the youthful Earl of Derby. Do you think I enjoyed that
sovereignty long without doing justice on that traitor Christian?"

"How, madam," said Lady Peveril, who, though she knew the high and
ambitious spirit of the Countess, scarce anticipated the extremities to
which it was capable of hurrying her—"have you imprisoned
Christian?"

"Ay, wench—in that sure prison which felon never breaks from,"
answered the Countess.

Bridgenorth, who had insensibly approached them, and was listening with an
agony of interest which he was unable any longer to suppress, broke in
with the stern exclamation—

"Lady, I trust you have not dared——"

The Countess interrupted him in her turn.

"I know not who you are who question—and you know not me when you
speak to me of that which I dare, or dare not do. But you seem interested
in the fate of this Christian, and you shall hear it.—I was no
sooner placed in possession of my rightful power, than I ordered the
Dempster of the island to hold upon the traitor a High Court of Justice,
with all the formalities of the isle, as prescribed in its oldest records.
The Court was held in the open air, before the Dempster and the Keys of
the island, assembled under the vaulted cope of heaven, and seated on the
terrace of the Zonwald Hill, where of old Druid and Scald held their
courts of judgment. The criminal was heard at length in his own defence,
which amounted to little more than those specious allegations of public
consideration, which are ever used to colour the ugly front of treason. He
was fully convicted of his crime, and he received the doom of a traitor."

"But which, I trust, is not yet executed?" said Lady Peveril, not without
an involuntary shudder.

"You are a fool, Margaret," said the Countess sharply; "think you I
delayed such an act of justice, until some wretched intrigues of the new
English Court might have prompted their interference? No, wench—he
passed from the judgment-seat to the place of execution, with no farther
delay than might be necessary for his soul's sake. He was shot to death by
a file of musketeers in the common place of execution called Hango Hill."

"As you seem interested for this criminal," added the Countess, addressing
Bridgenorth, "I do him but justice in repeating to you, that his death was
firm and manly, becoming the general tenor of his life, which, but for
that gross act of traitorous ingratitude, had been fair and honourable.
But what of that? The hypocrite is a saint, and the false traitor a man of
honour, till opportunity, that faithful touchstone, proves their metal to
be base."

"It is false, woman—it is false!" said Bridgenorth, no longer
suppressing his indignation.

"What means this bearing, Master Bridgenorth?" said Lady Peveril, much
surprised. "What is this Christian to you, that you should insult the
Countess of Derby under my roof?"

"Speak not to me of countesses and of ceremonies," said Bridgenorth;
"grief and anger leave me no leisure for idle observances to humour the
vanity of overgrown children.—O Christian—worthy, well worthy,
of the name thou didst bear! My friend—my brother—the brother
of my blessed Alice—the only friend of my desolate estate! art thou
then cruelly murdered by a female fury, who, but for thee, had deservedly
paid with her own blood that of God's saints, which she, as well as her
tyrant husband, had spilled like water!—Yes, cruel murderess!" he
continued, addressing the Countess, "he whom thou hast butchered in thy
insane vengeance, sacrificed for many a year the dictates of his own
conscience to the interest of thy family, and did not desert it till thy
frantic zeal for royalty had well-nigh brought to utter perdition the
little community in which he was born. Even in confining thee, he acted
but as the friends of the madman, who bind him with iron for his own
preservation; and for thee, as I can bear witness, he was the only barrier
between thee and the wrath of the Commons of England; and but for his
earnest remonstrances, thou hadst suffered the penalty of thy malignancy,
even like the wicked wife of Ahab."

"Master Bridgenorth," said the Lady Peveril, "I will allow for your
impatience upon hearing these unpleasing tidings; but there is neither use
nor propriety in farther urging this question. If in your grief you forget
other restraints, I pray you to remember that the Countess is my guest and
kinswoman, and is under such protection as I can afford her. I beseech
you, in simple courtesy, to withdraw, as what must needs be the best and
most becoming course in these trying circumstances."

"Nay, let him remain," said the Countess, regarding him with composure,
not unmingled with triumph; "I would not have it otherwise; I would not
that my revenge should be summed up in the stinted gratification which
Christian's death hath afforded. This man's rude and clamorous grief only
proves that the retribution I have dealt has been more widely felt than by
the wretched sufferer himself. I would I knew that it had but made sore as
many rebel hearts, as there were loyal breasts afflicted by the death of
my princely Derby!"

"So please you, madam," said Lady Peveril, "since Master Bridgenorth hath
not the manners to leave us upon my request, we will, if your ladyship
lists, leave him, and retire to my apartment.—Farewell, Master
Bridgenorth; we will meet hereafter on better terms."

"Pardon me, madam," said the Major, who had been striding hastily through
the room, but now stood fast, and drew himself up, as one who has taken a
resolution;—"to yourself I have nothing to say but what is
respectful; but to this woman I must speak as a magistrate. She has
confessed a murder in my presence—the murder too of my
brother-in-law—as a man, and as a magistrate, I cannot permit her to
pass from hence, excepting under such custody as may prevent her farther
flight. She has already confessed that she is a fugitive, and in search of
a place of concealment, until she should be able to escape into foreign
parts.—Charlotte, Countess of Derby, I attach thee of the crime of
which thou hast but now made thy boast."

"I shall not obey your arrest," said the Countess composedly; "I was born
to give, but not to receive such orders. What have your English laws to do
with my acts of justice and of government, within my son's hereditary
kingdom? Am I not Queen in Man, as well as Countess of Derby? A feudatory
Sovereign indeed; but yet independent so long as my dues of homage are
duly discharged. What right can you assert over me?"

"That given by the precepts of Scripture," answered Bridgenorth—"'Whoso
spilleth man's blood, by man shall his blood be spilled.' Think not the
barbarous privileges of ancient feudal customs will avail to screen you
from the punishment due for an Englishman murdered upon pretexts
inconsistent with the act of indemnity."

"Master Bridgenorth," said the Lady Peveril, "if by fair terms you desist
not from your present purpose, I tell you that I neither dare, nor will,
permit any violence against this honourable lady within the walls of my
husband's castle."

"You will find yourself unable to prevent me from executing my duty,
madam," said Bridgenorth, whose native obstinacy now came in aid of his
grief and desire of revenge; "I am a magistrate, and act by authority."

"I know not that," said Lady Peveril. "That you were a magistrate,
Master Bridgenorth, under the late usurping powers, I know well; but till
I hear of your having a commission in the name of the King, I now hesitate
to obey you as such."

"I shall stand on small ceremony," said Bridgenorth. "Were I no
magistrate, every man has title to arrest for murder against the terms of
the indemnities held out by the King's proclamations, and I will make my
point good."

"What indemnities? What proclamations?" said the Countess of Derby
indignantly. "Charles Stuart may, if he pleases (and it doth seem to
please him), consort with those whose hands have been red with the blood,
and blackened with the plunder, of his father and of his loyal subjects.
He may forgive them if he will, and count their deeds good service. What
has that to do with this Christian's offence against me and mine? Born a
Mankesman—bred and nursed in the island—he broke the laws
under which he lived, and died for the breach of them, after the fair
trial which they allowed.—Methinks, Margaret, we have enough of this
peevish and foolish magistrate—I attend you to your apartment."

Major Bridgenorth placed himself betwixt them and the door, in a manner
which showed him determined to interrupt their passage; when the Lady
Peveril, who thought she already showed more deference to him in this
matter than her husband was likely to approve of, raised her voice, and
called loudly on her steward, Whitaker. That alert person, who had heard
high talking, and a female voice with which he was unacquainted, had
remained for several minutes stationed in the anteroom, much afflicted
with the anxiety of his own curiosity. Of course he entered in an instant.

"Let three of the men instantly take arms," said the lady; "bring them
into the anteroom, and wait my farther orders."

CHAPTER VI

You shall have no worse prison than my chamber,
Nor jailer than myself.
—THE CAPTAIN.

The command which Lady Peveril laid on her domestics to arm themselves,
was so unlike the usual gentle acquiescence of her manners, that Major
Bridgenorth was astonished. "How mean you, madam?" said he; "I thought
myself under a friendly roof."

"And you are so, Master Bridgenorth," said the Lady Peveril, without
departing from the natural calmness of her voice and manner; "but it is a
roof which must not be violated by the outrage of one friend against
another."

"It is well, madam," said Bridgenorth, turning to the door of the
apartment. "The worthy Master Solsgrace has already foretold, that the
time was returned when high houses and proud names should be once more an
excuse for the crimes of those who inhabit the one and bear the other. I
believed him not, but now see he is wiser than I. Yet think not I will
endure this tamely. The blood of my brother—of the friend of my
bosom—shall not long call from the altar, 'How long, O Lord, how
long!' If there is one spark of justice left in this unhappy England, that
proud woman and I shall meet where she can have no partial friend to
protect her."

So saying, he was about to leave the apartment, when Lady Peveril said,
"You depart not from this place, Master Bridgenorth, unless you give me
your word to renounce all purpose against the noble Countess's liberty
upon the present occasion."

"I would sooner," answered he, "subscribe to my own dishonour, madam,
written down in express words, than to any such composition. If any man
offers to interrupt me, his blood be on his own head!" As Major
Bridgenorth spoke, Whitaker threw open the door, and showed that, with the
alertness of an old soldier, who was not displeased to see things tend
once more towards a state of warfare, he had got with him four stout
fellows in the Knight of the Peak's livery, well armed with swords and
carabines, buff-coats, and pistols at their girdles.

"I will see," said Major Bridgenorth, "if any of these men be so desperate
as to stop me, a freeborn Englishman, and a magistrate in the discharge of
my duty."

So saying, he advanced upon Whitaker and his armed assistants, with his
hand on the hilt of his sword.

"Do not be so desperate, Master Bridgenorth," exclaimed Lady Peveril; and
added, in the same moment, "Lay hold upon, and disarm him, Whitaker; but
do him no injury."

Her commands were obeyed. Bridgenorth, though a man of moral resolution,
was not one of those who undertook to cope in person with odds of a
description so formidable. He half drew his sword, and offered such show
of resistance as made it necessary to secure him by actual force; but then
yielded up his weapon, and declared that, submitting to force which one
man was unable to resist, he made those who commanded, and who employed
it, responsible for assailing his liberty without a legal warrant.

"Never mind a warrant on a pinch, Master Bridgenorth," said old Whitaker;
"sure enough you have often acted upon a worse yourself. My lady's word is
as good as a warrant, sure, as Old Noll's commission; and you bore that
many a day, Master Bridgenorth, and, moreover, you laid me in the stocks
for drinking the King's health, Master Bridgenorth, and never cared a
farthing about the laws of England."

"Hold your saucy tongue, Whitaker," said the Lady Peveril; "and do you,
Master Bridgenorth, not take it to heart that you are detained prisoner
for a few hours, until the Countess of Derby can have nothing to fear from
your pursuit. I could easily send an escort with her that might bid
defiance to any force you could muster; but I wish, Heaven knows, to bury
the remembrance of old civil dissensions, not to awaken new. Once more,
will you think better of it—assume your sword again, and forget whom
you have now seen at Martindale Castle?"

"Never," said Bridgenorth. "The crime of this cruel woman will be the last
of human injuries which I can forget. The last thought of earthly kind
which will leave me, will be the desire that justice shall be done on
her."

"If such be your sentiments," said Lady Peveril, "though they are more
allied to revenge than to justice, I must provide for my friend's safety,
by putting restraint upon your person. In this room you will be supplied
with every necessary of life, and every convenience; and a message shall
relieve your domestics of the anxiety which your absence from the Hall is
not unlikely to occasion. When a few hours, at most two days, are over, I
will myself relieve you from confinement, and demand your pardon for now
acting as your obstinacy compels me to do."

The Major made no answer, but that he was in her hands, and must submit to
her pleasure; and then turned sullenly to the window, as if desirous to be
rid of their presence.

The Countess and the Lady Peveril left the apartment arm in arm; and the
lady issued forth her directions to Whitaker concerning the mode in which
she was desirous that Bridgenorth should be guarded and treated during his
temporary confinement; at the same time explaining to him, that the safety
of the Countess of Derby required that he should be closely watched.

In all proposals for the prisoner's security, such as the regular relief
of guards, and the like, Whitaker joyfully acquiesced, and undertook, body
for body, that he should be detained in captivity for the necessary
period. But the old steward was not half so docile when it came to be
considered how the captive's bedding and table should be supplied; and he
thought Lady Peveril displayed a very undue degree of attention to her
prisoner's comforts. "I warrant," he said, "that the cuckoldly Roundhead
ate enough of our fat beef yesterday to serve him for a month; and a
little fasting will do his health good. Marry, for drink, he shall have
plenty of cold water to cool his hot liver, which I will be bound is still
hissing with the strong liquors of yesterday. And as for bedding, there
are the fine dry board—more wholesome than the wet straw I lay upon
when I was in the stocks, I trow."

"Whitaker," said the lady peremptorily, "I desire you to provide Master
Bridgenorth's bedding and food in the way I have signified to you; and to
behave yourself towards him in all civility."

"Lack-a-day! yes, my lady," said Whitaker; "you shall have all your
directions punctually obeyed; but as an old servant, I cannot but speak my
mind."

The ladies retired after this conference with the steward in the
antechamber, and were soon seated in another apartment, which was
peculiarly dedicated to the use of the mistress of the mansion—having,
on the one side, access to the family bedroom; and, on the other, to the
still-room which communicated with the garden. There was also a small door
which, ascending a few steps, led to that balcony, already mentioned, that
overhung the kitchen; and the same passage, by a separate door, admitted
to the principal gallery in the chapel; so that the spiritual and temporal
affairs of the Castle were placed almost at once within the reach of the
same regulating and directing eye.[*]

[*] This peculiar collocation of apartments may be seen at Haddon
Hall, Derbyshire, once a seat of the Vernons, where, in the lady's
pew in the chapel, there is a sort of scuttle, which opens into
the kitchen, so that the good lady could ever and anon, without
much interruption of her religious duties, give an eye that the
roast-meat was not permitted to burn, and that the turn-broche did
his duty.

In the tapestried room, from which issued these various sally-ports, the
Countess and Lady Peveril were speedily seated; and the former, smiling
upon the latter, said, as she took her hand, "Two things have happened
to-day, which might have surprised me, if anything ought to surprise me in
such times:—the first is, that yonder roundheaded fellow should have
dared to use such insolence in the house of Peveril of the Peak. If your
husband is yet the same honest and downright Cavalier whom I once knew,
and had chanced to be at home, he would have thrown the knave out of
window. But what I wonder at still more, Margaret, is your generalship. I
hardly thought you had courage sufficient to have taken such decided
measures, after keeping on terms with the man so long. When he spoke of
justices and warrants, you looked so overawed that I thought I felt the
clutch of the parish-beadles on my shoulder, to drag me to prison as a
vagrant."

"We owe Master Bridgenorth some deference, my dearest lady," answered the
Lady Peveril; "he has served us often and kindly, in these late times; but
neither he, nor any one else, shall insult the Countess of Derby in the
house of Margaret Stanley."

"Presence of mind is courage," answered the Countess. "Real valour
consists not in being insensible to danger, but in being prompt to
confront and disarm it;—and we may have present occasion for all
that we possess," she added, with some slight emotion, "for I hear the
trampling of horses' steps on the pavement of the court."

In one moment, the boy Julian, breathless with joy, came flying into the
room, to say that papa was returned, with Lamington and Sam Brewer; and
that he was himself to ride Black Hastings to the stable. In the second
the tramp of the honest Knight's heavy jack-boots was heard, as, in his
haste to see his lady, he ascended the staircase by two steps at a time.
He burst into the room; his manly countenance and disordered dress showing
marks that he had been riding fast; and without looking to any one else,
caught his good lady in his arms, and kissed her a dozen of times.—Blushing,
and with some difficulty, Lady Peveril extricated herself from Sir
Geoffrey's arms; and in a voice of bashful and gentle rebuke, bid him, for
shame, observe who was in the room.

"One," said the Countess, advancing to him, "who is right glad to see that
Sir Geoffrey Peveril, though turned courtier and favourite, still values
the treasure which she had some share in bestowing upon him. You cannot
have forgot the raising of the leaguer of Latham House!"

"The noble Countess of Derby!" said Sir Geoffrey, doffing his plumed hat
with an air of deep deference, and kissing with much reverence the hand
which she held out to him; "I am as glad to see your ladyship in my poor
house, as I would be to hear that they had found a vein of lead in the
Brown Tor. I rode hard, in the hope of being your escort through the
country. I feared you might have fallen into bad hands, hearing there was
a knave sent out with a warrant from the Council."

"When heard you so? and from whom?"

"It was from Cholmondley of Vale Royal," said Sir Geoffrey; "he is come
down to make provision for your safety through Cheshire; and I promised to
bring you there in safety. Prince Rupert, Ormond, and other friends, do
not doubt the matter will be driven to a fine; but they say the
Chancellor, and Harry Bennet, and some others of the over-sea counsellors,
are furious at what they call a breach of the King's proclamation. Hang
them, say I!—They left us to bear all the beating; and now they are
incensed that we should wish to clear scores with those who rode us like
nightmares!"

"What did they talk of for my chastisement?" said the Countess.

"I wot not," said Sir Geoffrey; "some friends, as I said, from our kind
Cheshire, and others, tried to bring it to a fine; but some, again, spoke
of nothing but the Tower, and a long imprisonment."

"I have suffered imprisonment long enough for King Charles's sake," said
the Countess; "and have no mind to undergo it at his hand. Besides, if I
am removed from the personal superintendence of my son's dominions in Man,
I know not what new usurpation may be attempted there. I must be obliged
to you, cousin, to contrive that I may get in security to Vale Royal, and
from thence I know I shall be guarded safely to Liverpool."

"You may rely on my guidance and protection, noble lady," answered her
host, "though you had come here at midnight, and with the rogue's head in
your apron, like Judith in the Holy Apocrypha, which I joy to hear once
more read in churches."

"Do the gentry resort much to the Court?" said the lady.

"Ay, madam," replied Sir Geoffrey; "and according to our saying, when
miners do begin to bore in these parts, it is for the grace of God, and
what they there may find."

"Meet the old Cavaliers with much countenance?" continued the Countess.

"Faith, madam, to speak truth," replied the Knight, "the King hath so
gracious a manner, that it makes every man's hopes blossom, though we have
seen but few that have ripened into fruit."

"You have not, yourself, my cousin," answered the Countess, "had room to
complain of ingratitude, I trust? Few have less deserved it at the King's
hand."

Sir Geoffrey was unwilling, like most prudent persons, to own the
existence of expectations which had proved fallacious, yet had too little
art in his character to conceal his disappointment entirely. "Who, I,
madam?" he said; "Alas! what should a poor country knight expect from the
King, besides the pleasure of seeing him in Whitehall once more, and
enjoying his own again? And his Majesty was very gracious when I was
presented, and spoke to me of Worcester, and of my horse, Black Hastings—he
had forgot his name, though—faith, and mine, too, I believe, had not
Prince Rupert whispered it to him. And I saw some old friends, such as his
Grace of Ormond, Sir Marmaduke Langdale, Sir Philip Musgrave, and so
forth; and had a jolly rouse or two, to the tune of old times."

"I should have thought so many wounds received—so many dangers
risked—such considerable losses—merited something more than a
few smooth words," said the Countess.

"Nay, my lady, there were other friends of mine who had the same thought,"
answered Peveril. "Some were of opinion that the loss of so many hundred
acres of fair land was worth some reward of honour at least; and there
were who thought my descent from William the Conqueror—craving your
ladyship's pardon for boasting it in your presence—would not have
become a higher rank or title worse than the pedigree of some who have
been promoted. But what said the witty Duke of Buckingham, forsooth?
(whose grandsire was a Lei'stershire Knight—rather poorer, and
scarcely so well-born as myself)—Why, he said, that if all of my
degree who deserved well of the King in the late times were to be made
peers, the House of Lords must meet upon Salisbury Plain!"

"And that bad jest passed for a good argument!" said the Countess; "and
well it might, where good arguments pass for bad jests. But here comes one
I must be acquainted with."

This was little Julian, who now re-entered the hall, leading his little
sister, as if he had brought her to bear witness to the boastful tale
which he told his father, of his having manfully ridden Black Hastings to
the stable-yard, alone in the saddle; and that Saunders though he walked
by the horse's head, did not once put his hand upon the rein, and Brewer,
though he stood beside him, scarce held him by the knee. The father kissed
the boy heartily; and the Countess, calling him to her so soon as Sir
Geoffrey had set him down, kissed his forehead also, and then surveyed all
his features with a keen and penetrating eye.

"He is a true Peveril," said she, "mixed as he should be with some touch
of the Stanley. Cousin, you must grant me my boon, and when I am safely
established, and have my present affair arranged, you must let me have
this little Julian of yours some time hence, to be nurtured in my house,
held as my page, and the playfellow of the little Derby. I trust in
Heaven, they will be such friends as their fathers have been, and may God
send them more fortunate times!"

"Marry, and I thank you for the proposal with all my heart, madam," said
the Knight. "There are so many noble houses decayed, and so many more in
which the exercise and discipline for the training of noble youths is
given up and neglected, that I have often feared I must have kept Gil to
be young master at home; and I have had too little nurture myself to teach
him much, and so he would have been a mere hunting hawking knight of
Derbyshire. But in your ladyship's household, and with the noble young
Earl, he will have all, and more than all, the education which I could
desire."

"There shall be no distinction betwixt them, cousin," said the Countess;
"Margaret Stanley's son shall be as much the object of care to me as my
own, since you are kindly disposed to entrust him to my charge.—You
look pale, Margaret," she continued, "and the tear stands in your eye? Do
not be so foolish, my love—what I ask is better than you can desire
for your boy; for the house of my father, the Duke de la Tremouille, was
the most famous school of chivalry in France; nor have I degenerated from
him, or suffered any relaxation in that noble discipline which trained
young gentlemen to do honour to their race. You can promise your Julian no
such advantages, if you train him up a mere home-bred youth."

"I acknowledge the importance of the favour, madam," said Lady Peveril,
"and must acquiesce in what your ladyship honours us by proposing, and Sir
Geoffrey approves of; but Julian is an only child, and——"

"An only son," said the Countess, "but surely not an only child. You pay
too high deference to our masters, the male sex, if you allow Julian to
engross all your affection, and spare none for this beautiful girl."

So saying, she set down Julian, and, taking Alice Bridgenorth on her lap,
began to caress her; and there was, notwithstanding her masculine
character, something so sweet in the tone of her voice and in the cast of
her features, that the child immediately smiled, and replied to her marks
of fondness. This mistake embarrassed Lady Peveril exceedingly. Knowing
the blunt impetuosity of her husband's character, his devotion to the
memory of the deceased Earl of Derby, and his corresponding veneration for
his widow, she was alarmed for the consequences of his hearing the conduct
of Bridgenorth that morning, and was particularly desirous that he should
not learn it save from herself in private, and after due preparation. But
the Countess's error led to a more precipitate disclosure.

"That pretty girl, madam," answered Sir Geoffrey, "is none of ours—I
wish she were. She belongs to a neighbour hard by—a good man, and,
to say truth, a good neighbour—though he was carried off from his
allegiance in the late times by a d—d Presbyterian scoundrel, who
calls himself a parson, and whom I hope to fetch down from his perch
presently, with a wannion to him! He has been cock of the roost long
enough.—There are rods in pickle to switch the Geneva cloak with, I
can tell the sour-faced rogues that much. But this child is the daughter
of Bridgenorth—neighbour Bridgenorth, of Moultrassie Hall."

"Bridgenorth?" said the Countess; "I thought I had known all the
honourable names in Derbyshire—I remember nothing of Bridgenorth.—But
stay—was there not a sequestrator and committeeman of that name?
Sure, it cannot be he?"

Peveril took some shame to himself, as he replied, "It is the very man
whom your ladyship means, and you may conceive the reluctance with which I
submitted to receive good offices from one of his kidney; but had I not
done so, I should have scarce known how to find a roof to cover Dame
Margaret's head."

The Countess, as he spoke, raised the child gently from her lap, and
placed it upon the carpet, though little Alice showed a disinclination to
the change of place, which the lady of Derby and Man would certainly have
indulged in a child of patrician descent and loyal parentage.

"I blame you not," she said; "no one knows what temptation will bring us
down to. Yet I did think Peveril of the Peak would have resided in
its deepest cavern, sooner than owed an obligation to a regicide."

"Nay, madam," answered the Knight, "my neighbour is bad enough, but not so
bad as you would make him; he is but a Presbyterian—that I must
confess—but not an Independent."

"A variety of the same monster," said the Countess, "who hallooed while
the others hunted, and bound the victim whom the Independents massacred.
Betwixt such sects I prefer the Independents. They are at least bold,
bare-faced, merciless villains, have more of the tiger in them, and less
of the crocodile. I have no doubt it was that worthy gentleman who took it
upon him this morning——"

She stopped short, for she saw Lady Peveril was vexed and embarrassed.

"I am," she said, "the most luckless of beings. I have said something, I
know not what, to distress you, Margaret—Mystery is a bad thing, and
betwixt us there should be none."

"There is none, madam," said Lady Peveril, something impatiently; "I
waited but an opportunity to tell my husband what had happened—Sir
Geoffrey, Master Bridgenorth was unfortunately here when the Lady Derby
and I met; and he thought it part of his duty to speak of——"

"To speak of what?" said the Knight, bending his brows. "You were ever
something too fond, dame, of giving way to the usurpation of such people."

"I only mean," said Lady Peveril, "that as the person—he to whom
Lord Derby's story related—was the brother of his late lady, he
threatened—but I cannot think that he was serious."

"Threaten?—threaten the Lady of Derby and Man in my house!—the
widow of my friend—the noble Charlotte of Latham House!—by
Heaven, the prick-eared slave shall answer it! How comes it that my knaves
threw him not out of the window?"

"Alas! Sir Geoffrey, you forget how much we owe him," said the lady.

"Owe him!" said the Knight, still more indignant; for in his singleness of
apprehension he conceived that his wife alluded to pecuniary obligations,—"if
I do owe him some money, hath he not security for it? and must he have the
right, over and above, to domineer and play the magistrate in Martindale
Castle?—Where is he?—what have you made of him? I will—I
must speak with him."

"Be patient, Sir Geoffrey," said the Countess, who now discerned the cause
of her kinswoman's apprehension; "and be assured I did not need your
chivalry to defend me against this discourteous faitour, as Morte
d'Arthur would have called him. I promise you my kinswoman hath fully
righted my wrong; and I am so pleased to owe my deliverance entirely to
her gallantry, that I charge and command you, as a true knight, not to
mingle in the adventure of another."

Lady Peveril, who knew her husband's blunt and impatient temper, and
perceived that he was becoming angry, now took up the story, and plainly
and simply pointed out the cause of Master Bridgenorth's interference.

"I am sorry for it," said the Knight; "I thought he had more sense; and
that this happy change might have done some good upon him. But you should
have told me this instantly—It consists not with my honour that he
should be kept prisoner in this house, as if I feared anything he could do
to annoy the noble Countess, while she is under my roof, or within twenty
miles of this Castle."

So saying, and bowing to the Countess, he went straight to the gilded
chamber, leaving Lady Peveril in great anxiety for the event of an angry
meeting between a temper hasty as that of her husband, and stubborn like
that of Bridgenorth. Her apprehensions were, however, unnecessary; for the
meeting was not fated to take place.

When Sir Geoffrey Peveril, having dismissed Whitaker and his sentinels,
entered the gilded chamber, in which he expected to find his captive, the
prisoner had escaped, and it was easy to see in what manner. The sliding
panel had, in the hurry of the moment, escaped the memory of Lady Peveril,
and of Whitaker, the only persons who knew anything of it. It was probable
that a chink had remained open, sufficient to indicate its existence to
Bridgenorth; who withdrawing it altogether, had found his way into the
secret apartment with which it communicated, and from thence to the
postern of the Castle by another secret passage, which had been formed in
the thickness of the wall, as is not uncommon in ancient mansions; the
lords of which were liable to so many mutations of fortune, that they
usually contrived to secure some lurking place and secret mode of retreat
from their fortresses. That Bridgenorth had discovered and availed himself
of this secret mode of retreat was evident; because the private doors
communicating with the postern and the sliding panel in the gilded chamber
were both left open.

Sir Geoffrey returned to the ladies with looks of perplexity. While he
deemed Bridgenorth within his reach, he was apprehensive of nothing he
could do; for he felt himself his superior in personal strength, and in
that species of courage which induces a man to rush, without hesitation,
upon personal danger. But when at a distance, he had been for many years
accustomed to consider Bridgenorth's power and influence as something
formidable; and notwithstanding the late change of affairs, his ideas so
naturally reverted to his neighbour as a powerful friend or dangerous
enemy, that he felt more apprehension on the Countess's score, than he was
willing to acknowledge even to himself. The Countess observed his downcast
and anxious brow, and requested to know if her stay there was likely to
involve him in any trouble, or in any danger.

"The trouble should be welcome," said Sir Geoffrey, "and more welcome the
danger, which should come on such an account. My plan was, that your
ladyship should have honoured Martindale with a few days' residence, which
might have been kept private until the search after you was ended. Had I
seen this fellow Bridgenorth, I have no doubt I could have compelled him
to act discreetly; but he is now at liberty, and will keep out of my
reach; and, what is worse, he has the secret of the priest's chamber."

Here the Knight paused, and seemed much embarrassed.

"You can, then, neither conceal nor protect me?" said the Countess.

"Pardon, my honoured lady," answered the Knight, "and let me say out my
say. The plain truth is, that this man hath many friends among the
Presbyterians here, who are more numerous than I would wish them; and if
he falls in with the pursuivant fellow who carries the warrant of the
Privy Council, it is likely he will back him with force sufficient to try
to execute it. And I doubt whether any of our friends can be summoned
together in haste, sufficient to resist such a power as they are like to
bring together."

"Nor would I wish any friends to take arms, in my name, against the King's
warrant, Sir Geoffrey," said the Countess.

"Nay, for that matter," replied the Knight, "an his Majesty will grant
warrants against his best friends, he must look to have them resisted. But
the best I can think of in this emergence is—though the proposal be
something inhospitable—that your ladyship should take presently to
horse, if your fatigue will permit. I will mount also, with some brisk
fellows, who will lodge you safe at Vale Royal, though the Sheriff stopped
the way with a whole posse comitatus."

The Countess of Derby willingly acquiesced in this proposal. She had
enjoyed a night's sound repose in the private chamber, to which Ellesmere
had guided her on the preceding evening, and was quite ready to resume her
route, or flight—"she scarce knew," she said, "which of the two she
should term it."

Lady Peveril wept at the necessity which seemed to hurry her earliest
friend and protectress from under her roof, at the instant when the clouds
of adversity were gathering around her; but she saw no alternative equally
safe. Nay, however strong her attachment to Lady Derby, she could not but
be more readily reconciled to her hasty departure, when she considered the
inconvenience, and even danger, in which her presence, at such a time, and
in such circumstances, was likely to involve a man so bold and
hot-tempered as her husband Sir Geoffrey.

While Lady Peveril, therefore, made every arrangement which time permitted
and circumstances required, for the Countess prosecuting her journey, her
husband, whose spirits always rose with the prospect of action, issued his
orders to Whitaker to get together a few stout fellows, with back and
breast pieces, and steel-caps. "There are the two lackeys, and Outram and
Saunders, besides the other groom fellow, and Roger Raine, and his son;
but bid Roger not come drunk again;—thyself, young Dick of the Dale
and his servant, and a file or two of the tenants,—we shall be
enough for any force they can make. All these are fellows that will strike
hard, and ask no question why—their hands are ever readier than
their tongues, and their mouths are more made for drinking than speaking."

Whitaker, apprised of the necessity of the case, asked if he should not
warn Sir Jasper Cranbourne.

"Not a word to him, as you live," said the Knight; "this may be an
outlawry, as they call it, for what I know; and therefore I will bring no
lands or tenements into peril, saving mine own. Sir Jasper hath had a
troublesome time of it for many a year. By my will, he shall sit quiet for
the rest of's days."

CHAPTER VII

The followers of Peveril were so well accustomed to the sound of "Boot and
Saddle," that they were soon mounted and in order; and in all the form,
and with some of the dignity of danger, proceeded to escort the Countess
of Derby through the hilly and desert tract of country which connects the
frontier of the shire with the neighbouring county of Cheshire. The
cavalcade moved with considerable precaution, which they had been taught
by the discipline of the Civil Wars. One wary and well-mounted trooper
rode about two hundred yards in advance; followed, at about half that
distance, by two more, with their carabines advanced, as if ready for
action. About one hundred yards behind the advance, came the main body;
where the Countess of Derby, mounted on Lady Peveril's ambling palfrey
(for her own had been exhausted by the journey from London to Martindale
Castle), accompanied by one groom, of approved fidelity, and one
waiting-maid, was attended and guarded by the Knight of the Peak, and
three files of good and practised horsemen. In the rear came Whitaker,
with Lance Outram, as men of especial trust, to whom the covering the
retreat was confided. They rode, as the Spanish proverb expresses it,
"with the beard on the shoulder," looking around, that is, from time to
time, and using every precaution to have the speediest knowledge of any
pursuit which might take place.

But, however wise in discipline, Peveril and his followers were somewhat
remiss in civil policy. The Knight had communicated to Whitaker, though
without any apparent necessity, the precise nature of their present
expedition; and Whitaker was equally communicative to his comrade Lance,
the keeper. "It is strange enough, Master Whitaker," said the latter, when
he had heard the case, "and I wish you, being a wise man, would expound
it;—why, when we have been wishing for the King—and praying
for the King—and fighting for the King—and dying for the King,
for these twenty years, the first thing we find to do on his return, is to
get into harness to resist his warrant?"

"Pooh! you silly fellow," said Whitaker, "that is all you know of the true
bottom of our quarrel! Why, man, we fought for the King's person against
his warrant, all along from the very beginning; for I remember the rogues'
proclamations, and so forth, always ran in the name of the King and
Parliament."

"Ay! was it even so?" replied Lance. "Nay, then, if they begin the old
game so soon again, and send out warrants in the King's name against his
loyal subjects, well fare our stout Knight, say I, who is ready to take
them down in their stocking-soles. And if Bridgenorth takes the chase
after us, I shall not be sorry to have a knock at him for one."

"Why, the man, bating he is a pestilent Roundhead and Puritan," said
Whitaker, "is no bad neighbour. What has he done to thee, man?"

"He has poached on the manor," answered the keeper.

"The devil he has!" replied Whitaker. "Thou must be jesting, Lance.
Bridgenorth is neither hunter nor hawker; he hath not so much of honesty
in him."

"Ay, but he runs after game you little think of, with his sour, melancholy
face, that would scare babes and curdle milk," answered Lance.

"Thou canst not mean the wenches?" said Whitaker; "why, he hath been
melancholy mad with moping for the death of his wife. Thou knowest our
lady took the child, for fear he should strangle it for putting him in
mind of its mother, in some of his tantrums. Under her favour, and among
friends, there are many poor Cavaliers' children, that care would be
better bestowed upon—But to thy tale."

"Why, thus it runs," said Lance. "I think you may have noticed, Master
Whitaker, that a certain Mistress Deborah hath manifested a certain favour
for a certain person in a certain household."

"Coxcomb?" said Lance; "why, 'twas but last night the whole family saw
her, as one would say, fling herself at my head."

"I would she had been a brickbat then, to have broken it, for thy
impertinence and conceit," said the steward.

"Well, but do but hearken. The next morning—that is, this very
blessed morning—I thought of going to lodge a buck in the park,
judging a bit of venison might be wanted in the larder, after yesterday's
wassail; and, as I passed under the nursery window, I did but just look up
to see what madam governante was about; and so I saw her, through the
casement, whip on her hood and scarf as soon as she had a glimpse of me.
Immediately after I saw the still-room door open, and made sure she was
coming through the garden, and so over the breach and down to the park;
and so, thought I, 'Aha, Mistress Deb, if you are so ready to dance after
my pipe and tabor, I will give you a couranto before you shall come up
with me.' And so I went down Ivy-tod Dingle, where the copse is tangled,
and the ground swampy, and round by Haxley-bottom, thinking all the while
she was following, and laughing in my sleeve at the round I was giving
her."

"You deserved to be ducked for it," said Whitaker, "for a weather-headed
puppy; but what is all this Jack-a-lantern story to Bridgenorth?"

"Why, it was all along of he, man," continued Lance, "that is, of
Bridgenorth, that she did not follow me—Gad, I first walked slow,
and then stopped, and then turned back a little, and then began to wonder
what she had made of herself, and to think I had borne myself something
like a jackass in the matter."

"That I deny," said Whitaker, "never jackass but would have borne him
better—but go on."

"Why, turning my face towards the Castle, I went back as if I had my nose
bleeding, when just by the Copely thorn, which stands, you know, a
flight-short from the postern-gate, I saw Madam Deb in close conference
with the enemy."

"What enemy?" said the steward.

"What enemy! why, who but Bridgenorth? They kept out of sight, and among
the copse; but, thought I, it is hard if I cannot stalk you, that have
stalked so many bucks. If so, I had better give my shafts to be pudding
pins. So I cast round the thicket, to watch their waters; and may I never
bend crossbow again, if I did not see him give her gold, and squeeze her
by the hand!"

"And was that all you saw pass between them?" said the steward.

"Faith, and it was enough to dismount me from my hobby," said Lance.
"What! when I thought I had the prettiest girl in the Castle dancing after
my whistle, to find that she gave me the bag to hold, and was smuggling in
a corner with a rich old Puritan!"

"Credit me, Lance, it is not as thou thinkest," said Whitaker.
"Bridgenorth cares not for these amorous toys, and thou thinkest of
nothing else. But it is fitting our Knight should know that he has met
with Deborah in secret, and given her gold; for never Puritan gave gold
yet, but it was earnest for some devil's work done, or to be done."

"Nay, but," said Lance, "I would not be such a dog-bolt as to go and
betray the girl to our master. She hath a right to follow her fancy, as
the dame said who kissed her cow—only I do not much approve her
choice, that is all. He cannot be six years short of fifty; and a verjuice
countenance, under the penthouse of a slouched beaver, and bag of meagre
dried bones, swaddled up in a black cloak, is no such temptation,
methinks."

"I tell you once more," said Whitaker, "you are mistaken; and that there
neither is, nor can be, any matter of love between them, but only some
intrigue, concerning, perhaps, this same noble Countess of Derby. I tell
thee, it behoves my master to know it, and I will presently tell it to
him."

So saying, and in spite of all the remonstrances which Lance continued to
make on behalf of Mistress Deborah, the steward rode up to the main body
of their little party, and mentioned to the Knight, and the Countess of
Derby, what he had just heard from the keeper, adding at the same time his
own suspicions, that Master Bridgenorth of Moultrassie Hall was desirous
to keep up some system of espial in the Castle of Martindale, either in
order to secure his menaced vengeance on the Countess of Derby, as
authoress of his brother-in-law's death, or for some unknown, but probably
sinister purpose.

The Knight of the Peak was filled with high resentment at Whitaker's
communication. According to his prejudices, those of the opposite faction
were supposed to make up by wit and intrigue what they wanted in open
force; and he now hastily conceived that his neighbour, whose prudence he
always respected, and sometimes even dreaded, was maintaining for his
private purposes, a clandestine correspondence with a member of his
family. If this was for the betrayal of his noble guest, it argued at once
treachery and presumption; or, viewing the whole as Lance had done, a
criminal intrigue with a woman so near the person of Lady Peveril, was in
itself, he deemed, a piece of sovereign impertinence and disrespect on the
part of such a person as Bridgenorth, against whom Sir Geoffrey's anger
was kindled accordingly.

Whitaker had scarce regained his post in the rear, when he again quitted
it, and galloped to the main body with more speed than before, with the
unpleasing tidings that they were pursued by half a score of horseman, and
better.

"Ride on briskly to Hartley-nick," said the Knight, "and there, with God
to help, we will bide the knaves.—Countess of Derby—one word
and a short one—Farewell!—you must ride forward with Whitaker
and another careful fellow, and let me alone to see that no one treads on
your skirts."

"I will abide with you and stand them," said the Countess; "you know of
old, I fear not to look on man's work."

"You must ride on, madam," said the Knight, "for the sake of the
young Earl, and the rest of my noble friends' family. There is no manly
work which can be worth your looking upon; it is but child's play that
these fellows bring with them."

As she yielded a reluctant consent to continue her flight, they reached
the bottom of Hartley-nick, a pass very steep and craggy, and where the
road, or rather path, which had hitherto passed over more open ground,
became pent up and confined betwixt copsewood on the one side, and, on the
other, the precipitous bank of a mountain stream.

The Countess of Derby, after an affectionate adieu to Sir Geoffrey, and
having requested him to convey her kind commendations to her little
page-elect and his mother, proceeded up the pass at a round pace, and with
her attendants and escort, was soon out of sight. Immediately after she
had disappeared, the pursuers came up with Sir Geoffrey Peveril, who had
divided and drawn up his party so as completely to occupy the road at
three different points.

The opposite party was led, as Sir Geoffrey had expected, by Major
Bridgenorth. At his side was a person in black, with a silver greyhound on
his arm; and he was followed by about eight or ten inhabitants of the
village of Martindale Moultrassie, two or three of whom were officers of
the peace, and others were personally known to Sir Geoffrey as favourers
of the subverted government.

As the party rode briskly up, Sir Geoffrey called to them to halt; and as
they continued advancing, he ordered his own people to present their
pistols and carabines; and after assuming that menacing attitude, he
repeated, with a voice of thunder, "Halt, or we fire!"

The other party halted accordingly, and Major Bridgenorth advanced, as if
to parley.

"Why, how now, neighbour," said Sir Geoffrey, as if he had at that moment
recognised him for the first time,—"what makes you ride so sharp
this morning? Are you not afraid to harm your horse, or spoil your spurs?"

"Sir Geoffrey," said the Major, "I have not time for jesting—I'm on
the King's affairs."

"Are you sure it is not upon Old Noll's, neighbour? You used to hold his
the better errand," said the Knight, with a smile which gave occasion to a
horse-laugh among his followers.

"Show him your warrant," said Bridgenorth to the man in black formerly
mentioned, who was a pursuivant. Then taking the warrant from the officer,
he gave it to Sir Geoffrey—"To this, at least, you will pay regard."

"The same regard which you would have paid to it a month back or so," said
the Knight, tearing the warrant to shreds.—"What a plague do you
stare at? Do you think you have a monopoly of rebellion, and that we have
not a right to show a trick of disobedience in our turn?"

"Make way, Sir Geoffrey Peveril," said Bridgenorth, "or you will compel me
to do that I may be sorry for. I am in this matter the avenger of the
blood of one of the Lord's saints, and I will follow the chase while
Heaven grants me an arm to make my way."

"You shall make no way here but at your peril," said Sir Geoffrey; "this
is my ground—I have been harassed enough for these twenty years by
saints, as you call yourselves. I tell you, master, you shall neither
violate the security of my house, nor pursue my friends over the grounds,
nor tamper, as you have done, amongst my servants, with impunity. I have
had you in respect for certain kind doings, which I will not either forget
or deny, and you will find it difficult to make me draw a sword or bend a
pistol against you; but offer any hostile movement, or presume to advance
a foot, and I will make sure of you presently. And for those rascals, who
come hither to annoy a noble lady on my bounds, unless you draw them off,
I will presently send some of them to the devil before their time."

"Make room at your proper peril," said Major Bridgenorth; and he put his
right hand on his holster-pistol. Sir Geoffrey closed with him instantly,
seized him by the collar, and spurred Black Hastings, checking him at the
same time, so that the horse made a courbette, and brought the full weight
of his chest against the counter of the other. A ready soldier might, in
Bridgenorth's situation, have rid himself of his adversary with a bullet.
But Bridgenorth's courage, notwithstanding his having served some time
with the Parliament army, was rather of a civil than a military character;
and he was inferior to his adversary, not only in strength and
horsemanship, but also and especially in the daring and decisive
resolution which made Sir Geoffrey thrust himself readily into personal
contest. While, therefore, they tugged and grappled together upon terms
which bore such little accordance with their long acquaintance and close
neighbourhood, it was no wonder that Bridgenorth should be unhorsed with
much violence. While Sir Geoffrey sprung from the saddle, the party of
Bridgenorth advanced to rescue their leader, and that of the Knight to
oppose them. Swords were unsheathed, and pistols presented; but Sir
Geoffrey, with the voice of a herald, commanded both parties to stand
back, and to keep the peace.

The pursuivant took the hint, and easily found a reason for not
prosecuting a dangerous duty. "The warrant," he said, "was destroyed. They
that did it must be answerable to the Council; for his part, he could
proceed no farther without his commission."

"Well said, and like a peaceable fellow!" said Sir Geoffrey.—"Let
him have refreshment at the Castle—his nag is sorely out of
condition.—Come, neighbour Bridgenorth, get up, man—I trust
you have had no hurt in this mad affray? I was loath to lay hand on you,
man, till you plucked out your petronel."

As he spoke thus, he aided the Major to rise. The pursuivant, meanwhile,
drew aside; and with him the constable and head-borough, who were not
without some tacit suspicion, that though Peveril was interrupting the
direct course of law in this matter, yet he was likely to have his offence
considered by favourable judges; and therefore it might be as much for
their interest and safety to give way as to oppose him. But the rest of
the party, friends of Bridgenorth, and of his principles, kept their
ground notwithstanding this defection, and seemed, from their looks,
sternly determined to rule their conduct by that of their leader, whatever
it might be.

But it was evident that Bridgenorth did not intend to renew the struggle.
He shook himself rather roughly free from the hands of Sir Geoffrey
Peveril; but it was not to draw his sword. On the contrary, he mounted his
horse with a sullen and dejected air; and, making a sign to his followers,
turned back the same road which he had come. Sir Geoffrey looked after him
for some minutes. "Now, there goes a man," said he, "who would have been a
right honest fellow had he not been a Presbyterian. But there is no
heartiness about them—they can never forgive a fair fall upon the
sod—they bear malice, and that I hate as I do a black cloak, or a
Geneva skull-cap, and a pair of long ears rising on each side on't, like
two chimneys at the gable ends of a thatched cottage. They are as sly as
the devil to boot; and, therefore, Lance Outram, take two with you, and
keep after them, that they may not turn our flank, and get on the track of
the Countess again after all."

"I had as soon they should course my lady's white tame doe," answered
Lance, in the spirit of his calling. He proceeded to execute his master's
orders by dogging Major Bridgenorth at a distance, and observing his
course from such heights as commanded the country. But it was soon evident
that no manoeuvre was intended, and that the Major was taking the direct
road homeward. When this was ascertained, Sir Geoffrey dismissed most of
his followers; and retaining only his own domestics, rode hastily forward
to overtake the Countess.

It is only necessary to say farther, that he completed his purpose of
escorting the Countess of Derby to Vale Royal, without meeting any further
hindrance by the way. The lord of the mansion readily undertook to conduct
the high-minded lady to Liverpool, and the task of seeing her safely
embarked for her son's hereditary dominions, where there was no doubt of
her remaining in personal safety until the accusation against her for
breach of the Royal Indemnity, by the execution of Christian, could be
brought to some compromise.

For a length of time this was no easy matter. Clarendon, then at the head
of Charles's administration, considered her rash action, though dictated
by motives which the human breast must, in some respects, sympathise with,
as calculated to shake the restored tranquillity of England, by exciting
the doubts and jealousies of those who had to apprehend the consequences
of what is called, in our own time, a reaction. At the same time,
the high services of this distinguished family—the merits of the
Countess herself—the memory of her gallant husband—and the
very peculiar circumstances of jurisdiction which took the case out of all
common rules, pleaded strongly in her favour; and the death of Christian
was at length only punished by the imposition of a heavy fine, amounting,
we believe, to many thousand pounds; which was levied, with great
difficulty, out of the shattered estates of the young Earl of Derby.

CHAPTER VIII

My native land, good night!
—BYRON.

Lady Peveril remained in no small anxiety for several hours after her
husband and the Countess had departed from Martindale Castle; more
especially when she learned that Major Bridgenorth, concerning whose
motions she made private inquiry, had taken horse with a party, and was
gone to the westward in the same direction with Sir Geoffrey.

At length her immediate uneasiness in regard to the safety of her husband
and the Countess was removed, by the arrival of Whitaker, with her
husband's commendations, and an account of the scuffle betwixt himself and
Major Bridgenorth.

Lady Peveril shuddered to see how nearly they had approached to renewal of
the scenes of civil discord; and while she was thankful to Heaven for her
husband's immediate preservation, she could not help feeling both regret
and apprehension for the consequences of his quarrel with Major
Bridgenorth. They had now lost an old friend, who had showed himself such
under those circumstances of adversity by which friendship is most
severely tried; and she could not disguise from herself that Bridgenorth,
thus irritated, might be a troublesome, if not a dangerous enemy. His
rights as a creditor, he had hitherto used with gentleness; but if he
should employ rigour, Lady Peveril, whose attention to domestic economy
had made her much better acquainted with her husband's affairs than he was
himself, foresaw considerable inconvenience from the measures which the
law put in his power. She comforted herself with the recollection,
however, that she had still a strong hold on Bridgenorth, through his
paternal affection, and from the fixed opinion which he had hitherto
manifested, that his daughter's health could only flourish while under her
charge. But any expectations of reconciliation which Lady Peveril might
probably have founded on this circumstance, were frustrated by an incident
which took place in the course of the following morning.

The governante, Mistress Deborah, who has been already mentioned, went
forth, as usual, with the children, to take their morning exercise in the
Park, attended by Rachael, a girl who acted occasionally as her assistant
in attending upon them. But not as usual did she return. It was near the
hour of breakfast, when Ellesmere, with an unwonted degree of primness in
her mouth and manner, came to acquaint her lady that Mistress Deborah had
not thought proper to come back from the Park, though the breakfast hour
approached so near.

"She will come, then, presently," said Lady Peveril with indifference.

Ellesmere gave a short and doubtful cough, and then proceeded to say, that
Rachael had been sent home with little Master Julian, and that Mistress
Deborah had been pleased to say, she would walk on with Miss Bridgenorth
as far as Moultrassie Holt; which was a point at which the property of the
Major, as matters now stood, bounded that of Sir Geoffrey Peveril.

"Is the wench turned silly," exclaimed the lady, something angrily, "that
she does not obey my orders, and return at regular hours?"

"She may be turning silly," said Ellesmere mysteriously; "or she may be
turning too sly; and I think it were as well your ladyship looked to it."

"Looked to what, Ellesmere?" said the lady impatiently. "You are strangely
oracular this morning. If you know anything to the prejudice of this young
woman, I pray you speak it out."

"I prejudice!" said Ellesmere; "I scorn to prejudice man, woman, or child,
in the way of a fellow-servant; only I wish your ladyship to look about
you, and use your own eyes—that is all."

"You bid me use my own eyes, Ellesmere; but I suspect," answered the lady,
"you would be better pleased were I contented to see through your
spectacles. I charge you—and you know I will be obeyed—I
charge you to tell me what you know or suspect about this girl, Deborah
Debbitch."

"I see through spectacles!" exclaimed the indignant Abigail; "your
ladyship will pardon me in that, for I never use them, unless a pair that
belonged to my poor mother, which I put on when your ladyship wants your
pinners curiously wrought. No woman above sixteen ever did white-seam
without barnacles. And then as to suspecting, I suspect nothing; for as
your ladyship hath taken Mistress Deborah Debbitch from under my hand, to
be sure it is neither bread nor butter of mine. Only" (here she began to
speak with her lips shut, so as scarce to permit a sound to issue, and
mincing her words as if she pinched off the ends of them before she
suffered them to escape),—"only, madam, if Mistress Deborah goes so
often of a morning to Moultrassie Holt, why, I should not be surprised if
she should never find the way back again."

"Once more, what do you mean, Ellesmere? You were wont to have some sense—let
me know distinctly what the matter is."

"Only, madam," pursued the Abigail, "that since Bridgenorth came back from
Chesterfield, and saw you at the Castle Hall, Mistress Deborah has been
pleased to carry the children every morning to that place; and it has so
happened that she has often met the Major, as they call him, there in his
walks; for he can walk about now like other folks; and I warrant you she
hath not been the worse of the meeting—one way at least, for she
hath bought a new hood might serve yourself, madam; but whether she hath
had anything in hand besides a piece of money, no doubt your ladyship is
best judge."

Lady Peveril, who readily adopted the more good-natured construction of
the governante's motives, could not help laughing at the idea of a man of
Bridgenorth's precise appearance, strict principles, and reserved habits,
being suspected of a design of gallantry; and readily concluded, that
Mistress Deborah had found her advantage in gratifying his parental
affection by a frequent sight of his daughter during the few days which
intervened betwixt his first seeing little Alice at the Castle, and the
events which had followed. But she was somewhat surprised, when, an hour
after the usual breakfast hour, during which neither the child nor
Mistress Deborah appeared, Major Bridgenorth's only man-servant arrived at
the Castle on horseback, dressed as for a journey; and having delivered a
letter addressed to herself, and another to Mistress Ellesmere, rode away
without waiting any answer.

There would have been nothing remarkable in this, had any other person
been concerned; but Major Bridgenorth was so very quiet and orderly in all
his proceedings—so little liable to act hastily or by impulse, that
the least appearance of bustle where he was concerned, excited surprise
and curiosity.

Lady Peveril broke her letter hastily open, and found that it contained
the following lines:—

"For the Hands of the Honourable and Honoured Lady Peveril—
These:
"Madam—Please it your Ladyship,—I write more to excuse myself to
your ladyship, than to accuse either you or others, in respect
that I am sensible it becomes our frail nature better to confess
our own imperfections, than to complain of those of others.
Neither do I mean to speak of past times, particularly in respect
of your worthy ladyship, being sensible that if I have served you
in that period when our Israel might be called triumphant, you
have more than requited me, in giving to my arms a child,
redeemed, as it were, from the vale of the shadow of death. And
therefore, as I heartily forgive to your ladyship the unkind and
violent measure which you dealt to me at our last meeting (seeing
that the woman who was the cause of strife is accounted one of
your kindred people), I do entreat you, in like manner, to pardon
my enticing away from your service the young woman called Deborah
Debbitch, whose direction, is, it may be, indispensable to the
health of my dearest child. I had purposed, madam, with your
gracious permission, that Alice should have remained at Martindale
Castle, under your kind charge, until she could so far discern
betwixt good and evil, that it should be matter of conscience to
teach her the way in which she should go. For it is not unknown to
your ladyship, and in no way do I speak it reproachfully, but
rather sorrowfully, that a person so excellently gifted as
yourself—I mean touching natural qualities—has not yet received
that true light, which is a lamp to the paths, but are contented
to stumble in darkness, and among the graves of dead men. It has
been my prayer in the watches of the night, that your ladyship
should cease from the doctrine which causeth to err; but I grieve
to say, that our candlestick being about to be removed, the land
will most likely be involved in deeper darkness than ever; and the
return of the King, to which I and many looked forward as a
manifestation of divine favour, seems to prove little else than a
permitted triumph of the Prince of the Air, who setteth about to
restore his Vanity-fair of bishops, deans, and such like,
extruding the peaceful ministers of the word, whose labours have
proved faithful to many hungry souls. So, hearing from a sure
hand, that commission has gone forth to restore these dumb dogs,
the followers of Laud and of Williams, who were cast forth by the
late Parliament, and that an Act of Conformity, or rather of
deformity, of worship, was to be expected, it is my purpose to
flee from the wrath to come, and to seek some corner where I may
dwell in peace, and enjoy liberty of conscience. For who would
abide in the Sanctuary, after the carved work thereof is broken
down, and when it hath been made a place for owls, and satyrs of
the wilderness?—And herein I blame myself, madam, that I went in
the singleness of my heart too readily into that carousing in the
house of feasting, wherein my love of union, and my desire to show
respect to your ladyship, were made a snare to me. But I trust it
will be an atonement, that I am now about to absent myself from
the place of my birth, and the house of my fathers, as well as
from the place which holdeth the dust of those pledges of my
affection. I have also to remember, that in this land my honour
(after the worldly estimation) hath been abated, and my utility
circumscribed, by your husband, Sir Geoffrey Peveril; and that
without any chance of my obtaining reparation at his hand, whereby
I may say the hand of a kinsman was lifted up against my credit
and my life. These things are bitter to the taste of the old Adam;
wherefore to prevent farther bickerings, and, it may be,
bloodshed, it is better that I leave this land for a time. The
affairs which remain to be settled between Sir Geoffrey and
myself, I shall place in the hand of the righteous Master Joachim
Win-the-Fight, an attorney in Chester, who will arrange them with
such attention to Sir Geoffrey's convenience, as justice, and the
due exercise of the law, will permit; for, as I trust I shall
have grace to resist the temptation to make the weapons of carnal
warfare the instruments of my revenge, so I scorn to effect it
through the means of Mammon. Wishing, madam, that the Lord may
grant you every blessing, and, in especial, that which is over all
others, namely, the true knowledge of His way, I remain, your
devoted servant to command, RALPH BRIDGENORTH.
"Written at Moultrassie Hall, this tenth
day of July, 1660."

So soon as Lady Peveril had perused this long and singular homily, in
which it seemed to her that her neighbour showed more spirit of religious
fanaticism than she could have supposed him possessed of, she looked up
and beheld Ellesmere,—with a countenance in which mortification, and
an affected air of contempt, seemed to struggle together,—who, tired
with watching the expression of her mistress's countenance, applied for
confirmation of her suspicions in plain terms.

"I suppose, madam," said the waiting-woman, "the fanatic fool intends to
marry the wench? They say he goes to shift the country. Truly it's time,
indeed; for, besides that the whole neighbourhood would laugh him to
scorn, I should not be surprised if Lance Outram, the keeper, gave him a
buck's head to bear; for that is all in the way of his office."

"There is no great occasion for your spite at present, Ellesmere," replied
her lady. "My letter says nothing of marriage; but it would appear that
Master Bridgenorth, being to leave this country, has engaged Deborah to
take care of his child; and I am sure I am heartily glad of it, for the
infant's sake."

"And I am glad of it for my own," said Ellesmere; "and, indeed, for the
sake of the whole house.—And your ladyship thinks she is not like to
be married to him? Troth, I could never see how he should be such an
idiot; but perhaps she is going to do worse; for she speaks here of coming
to high preferment, and that scarce comes by honest servitude nowadays;
then she writes me about sending her things, as if I were mistress of the
wardrobe to her ladyship—ay, and recommends Master Julian to the
care of my age and experience, forsooth, as if she needed to recommend the
dear little jewel to me; and then, to speak of my age—But I will
bundle away her rags to the Hall, with a witness!"

"Do it with all civility," said the lady, "and let Whitaker send her the
wages for which she has served, and a broad-piece over and above; for
though a light-headed young woman, she was kind to the children."

"I know who is kind to their servants, madam, and would spoil the best
ever pinned a gown."

"I spoiled a good one, Ellesmere, when I spoiled thee," said the lady;
"but tell Mistress Deborah to kiss the little Alice for me, and to offer
my good wishes to Major Bridgenorth, for his temporal and future
happiness."

She permitted no observation or reply, but dismissed her attendant,
without entering into farther particulars.

When Ellesmere had withdrawn, Lady Peveril began to reflect, with much
feeling of compassion, on the letter of Major Bridgenorth; a person in
whom there were certainly many excellent qualities, but whom a series of
domestic misfortunes, and the increasing gloom of a sincere, yet stern
feeling of devotion, rendered lonely and unhappy; and she had more than
one anxious thought for the happiness of the little Alice, brought up, as
she was likely to be, under such a father. Still the removal of
Bridgenorth was, on the whole, a desirable event; for while he remained at
the Hall, it was but too likely that some accidental collision with Sir
Geoffrey might give rise to a rencontre betwixt them, more fatal than the
last had been.

In the meanwhile, she could not help expressing to Doctor Dummerar her
surprise and sorrow, that all which she had done and attempted, to
establish peace and unanimity betwixt the contending factions, had been
perversely fated to turn out the very reverse of what she had aimed at.

"But for my unhappy invitation," she said, "Bridgenorth would not have
been at the Castle on the morning which succeeded the feast, would not
have seen the Countess, and would not have incurred the resentment and
opposition of my husband. And but for the King's return, an event which
was so anxiously expected as the termination of all our calamities,
neither the noble lady nor ourselves had been engaged in this new path of
difficulty and danger."

"Honoured madam," said Doctor Dummerar, "were the affairs of this world to
be guided implicitly by human wisdom, or were they uniformly to fall out
according to the conjectures of human foresight, events would no longer be
under the domination of that time and chance, which happen unto all men,
since we should, in the one case, work out our own purposes to a
certainty, by our own skill, and in the other, regulate our conduct
according to the views of unerring prescience. But man is, while in this
vale of tears, like an uninstructed bowler, so to speak, who thinks to
attain the jack, by delivering his bowl straight forward upon it, being
ignorant that there is a concealed bias within the spheroid, which will
make it, in all probability, swerve away, and lose the cast."

Having spoken this with a sententious air, the Doctor took his
shovel-shaped hat, and went down to the Castle green, to conclude a match
of bowls with Whitaker, which had probably suggested this notable
illustration of the uncertain course of human events.

Two days afterwards, Sir Geoffrey arrived. He had waited at Vale Royal
till he heard of the Countess's being safely embarked for Man, and then
had posted homeward to his Castle and Dame Margaret. On his way, he
learned from some of his attendants, the mode in which his lady had
conducted the entertainment which she had given to the neighbourhood at
his order; and notwithstanding the great deference he usually showed in
cases where Lady Peveril was concerned, he heard of her liberality towards
the Presbyterian party with great indignation.

"I could have admitted Bridgenorth," he said, "for he always bore him in
neighbourly and kindly fashion till this last career—I could have
endured him, so he would have drunk the King's health, like a true man—but
to bring that snuffling scoundrel Solsgrace, with all his beggarly,
long-eared congregation, to hold a conventicle in my father's house—to
let them domineer it as they listed—why, I would not have permitted
them such liberty, when they held their head the highest! They never, in
the worst of times, found any way into Martindale Castle but what Noll's
cannon made for them; and that they should come and cant there, when good
King Charles is returned—By my hand, Dame Margaret shall hear of
it!"

But, notwithstanding these ireful resolutions, resentment altogether
subsided in the honest Knight's breast, when he saw the fair features of
his lady lightened with affectionate joy at his return in safety. As he
took her in his arms and kissed her, he forgave her ere he mentioned her
offence.

"Thou hast played the knave with me, Meg," he said, shaking his head, and
smiling at the same time, "and thou knowest in what manner; but I think
thou art true church-woman, and didst only act from silly womanish fancy
of keeping fair with these roguish Roundheads. But let me have no more of
this. I had rather Martindale Castle were again rent by their bullets,
than receive any of the knaves in the way of friendship—I always
except Ralph Bridgenorth of the Hall, if he should come to his senses
again."

Lady Peveril was here under the necessity of explaining what she had heard
of Master Bridgenorth—the disappearance of the governante with his
daughter, and placed Bridgenorth's letter in his hand. Sir Geoffrey shook
his head at first, and then laughed extremely at the idea that there was
some little love-intrigue between Bridgenorth and Mistress Deborah.

"It is the true end of a dissenter," he said, "to marry his own
maid-servant, or some other person's. Deborah is a good likely wench, and
on the merrier side of thirty, as I should think."

"Nay, nay," said the Lady Peveril, "you are as uncharitable as Ellesmere—I
believe it but to be affection to his child."

"Pshaw! pshaw!" answered the Knight, "women are eternally thinking of
children; but among men, dame, many one carresses the infant that he may
kiss the child's maid; and where's the wonder or the harm either, if
Bridgenorth should marry the wench? Her father is a substantial yeoman;
his family has had the same farm since Bosworthfield—as good a
pedigree as that of the great-grandson of a Chesterfield brewer, I trow.
But let us hear what he says for himself—I shall spell it out if
there is any roguery in the letter about love and liking, though it might
escape your innocence, Dame Margaret."

The Knight of the Peak began to peruse the letter accordingly, but was
much embarrassed by the peculiar language in which it was couched. "What
he means by moving of candlesticks, and breaking down of carved work in
the church, I cannot guess; unless he means to bring back the large silver
candlesticks which my grandsire gave to be placed on the altar at
Martindale Moultrassie; and which his crop-eared friends, like
sacrilegious villains as they are, stole and melted down. And in like
manner, the only breaking I know of, was when they pulled down the rails
of the communion table (for which some of their fingers are hot enough by
this time), and when the brass ornaments were torn down from Peveril
monuments; and that was breaking and removing with a vengeance. However,
dame, the upshot is, that poor Bridgenorth is going to leave the
neighbourhood. I am truly sorry for it, though I never saw him oftener
than once a day, and never spoke to him above two words. But I see how it
is—that little shake by the shoulder sticks in his stomach; and yet,
Meg, I did but lift him out of the saddle as I might have lifted thee into
it, Margaret—I was careful not to hurt him; and I did not think him
so tender in point of honour as to mind such a thing much; but I see
plainly where his sore lies; and I warrant you I will manage that he stays
at the Hall, and that you get back Julian's little companion. Faith, I am
sorry myself at the thought of losing the baby, and of having to choose
another ride when it is not hunting weather, than round by the Hall, with
a word at the window."

"I should be very glad, Sir Geoffrey," said the Lady Peveril, "that you
could come to a reconciliation with this worthy man, for such I must hold
Master Bridgenorth to be."

"But for his dissenting principles, as good a neighbour as ever lived,"
said Sir Geoffrey.

"But I scarce see," continued the lady, "any possibility of bringing about
a conclusion so desirable."

"Tush, dame," answered the Knight, "thou knowest little of such matters. I
know the foot he halts upon, and you shall see him go as sound as ever."

Lady Peveril had, from her sincere affection and sound sense, as good a
right to claim the full confidence of her husband, as any woman in
Derbyshire; and, upon this occasion, to confess the truth, she had more
anxiety to know his purpose than her sense of their mutual and separate
duties permitted her in general to entertain. She could not imagine what
mode of reconciliation with his neighbour, Sir Geoffrey (no very acute
judge of mankind or their peculiarities) could have devised, which might
not be disclosed to her; and she felt some secret anxiety lest the means
resorted to might be so ill chosen as to render the breach rather wider.
But Sir Geoffrey would give no opening for farther inquiry. He had been
long enough colonel of a regiment abroad, to value himself on the right of
absolute command at home; and to all the hints which his lady's ingenuity
could devise and throw out, he only answered, "Patience, Dame Margaret,
patience. This is no case for thy handling. Thou shalt know enough on't
by-and-by, dame.—Go, look to Julian. Will the boy never have done
crying for lack of that little sprout of a Roundhead? But we will have
little Alice back with us in two or three days, and all will be well
again."

As the good Knight spoke these words, a post winded his horn in the court,
and a large packet was brought in, addressed to the worshipful Sir
Geoffrey Peveril, Justice of the Peace, and so forth; for he had been
placed in authority as soon as the King's Restoration was put upon a
settled basis. Upon opening the packet, which he did with no small feeling
of importance, he found that it contained the warrant which he had
solicited for replacing Doctor Dummerar in the parish, from which he had
been forcibly ejected during the usurpation.

Few incidents could have given more delight to Sir Geoffrey. He could
forgive a stout able-bodied sectary or nonconformist, who enforced his
doctrines in the field by downright blows on the casques and cuirasses of
himself and other Cavaliers. But he remembered with most vindictive
accuracy, the triumphant entrance of Hugh Peters through the breach of his
Castle; and for his sake, without nicely distinguishing betwixt sects or
their teachers, he held all who mounted a pulpit without warrant from the
Church of England—perhaps he might also in private except that of
Rome—to be disturbers of the public tranquillity—seducers of
the congregation from their lawful preachers—instigators of the late
Civil War—and men well disposed to risk the fate of a new one.

Then, on the other hand, besides gratifying his dislike to Solsgrace, he
saw much satisfaction in the task of replacing his old friend and
associate in sport and in danger, the worthy Doctor Dummerar, in his
legitimate rights and in the ease and comforts of his vicarage. He
communicated the contents of the packet, with great triumph, to the lady,
who now perceived the sense of the mysterious paragraph in Major
Bridgenorth's letter, concerning the removal of the candlestick, and the
extinction of light and doctrine in the land. She pointed this out to Sir
Geoffrey, and endeavoured to persuade him that a door was now opened to
reconciliation with his neighbour, by executing the commission which he
had received in an easy and moderate manner, after due delay, and with all
respect to the feelings both of Solsgrace and his congregation, which
circumstances admitted of. This, the lady argued, would be doing no injury
whatever to Doctor Dummerar;—nay, might be the means of reconciling
many to his ministry, who might otherwise be disgusted with it for ever,
by the premature expulsion of a favourite preacher.

There was much wisdom, as well as moderation, in this advice; and, at
another time, Sir Geoffrey would have sense enough to have adopted it. But
who can act composedly or prudently in the hour of triumph? The ejection
of Mr. Solsgrace was so hastily executed, as to give it some appearance of
persecution; though, more justly considered, it was the restoring of his
predecessor to his legal rights. Solsgrace himself seemed to be desirous
to make his sufferings as manifest as possible. He held out to the last;
and on the Sabbath after he had received intimation of his ejection,
attempted to make his way to the pulpit, as usual, supported by Master
Bridgenorth's attorney, Win-the-Fight, and a few zealous followers.

Just as their party came into the churchyard on the one side, Doctor
Dummerar, dressed in full pontificals, in a sort of triumphal procession
accompanied by Peveril of the Peak, Sir Jasper Cranbourne, and other
Cavaliers of distinction, entered at the other.

To prevent an actual struggle in the church, the parish officers were sent
to prevent the farther approach of the Presbyterian minister; which was
effected without farther damage than a broken head, inflicted by Roger
Raine, the drunken innkeeper of the Peveril Arms, upon the Presbyterian
attorney of Chesterfield.

Unsubdued in spirit, though compelled to retreat by superior force, the
undaunted Mr. Solsgrace retired to the vicarage; where under some legal
pretext which had been started by Mr. Win-the-Fight (in that day unaptly
named), he attempted to maintain himself—bolted gates—barred
windows—and, as report said (though falsely), made provision of
fire-arms to resist the officers. A scene of clamour and scandal
accordingly took place, which being reported to Sir Geoffrey, he came in
person, with some of his attendants carrying arms—forced the
outer-gate and inner-doors of the house; and proceeding to the study,
found no other garrison save the Presbyterian parson, with the attorney,
who gave up possession of the premises, after making protestation against
the violence that had been used.

The rabble of the village being by this time all in motion, Sir Geoffrey,
both in prudence and good-nature, saw the propriety of escorting his
prisoners, for so they might be termed, safely through the tumult; and
accordingly conveyed them in person, through much noise and clamour, as
far as the avenue of Moultrassie Hall, which they chose for the place of
their retreat.

But the absence of Sir Geoffrey gave the rein to some disorders, which, if
present, he would assuredly have restrained. Some of the minister's books
were torn and flung about as treasonable and seditious trash, by the
zealous parish-officers or their assistants. A quantity of his ale was
drunk up in healths to the King and Peveril of the Peak. And, finally, the
boys, who bore the ex-parson no good-will for his tyrannical interference
with their games at skittles, foot-ball, and so forth, and, moreover,
remembered the unmerciful length of his sermons, dressed up an effigy with
his Geneva gown and band, and his steeple-crowned hat, which they paraded
through the village, and burned on the spot whilom occupied by a stately
Maypole, which Solsgrace had formerly hewed down with his own reverend
hands.

Sir Geoffrey was vexed at all this and sent to Mr. Solsgrace, offering
satisfaction for the goods which he had lost; but the Calvinistical divine
replied, "From a thread to a shoe-latchet, I will not take anything that
is thine. Let the shame of the work of thy hands abide with thee."

Considerable scandal, indeed, arose against Sir Geoffrey Peveril as having
proceeded with indecent severity and haste upon this occasion; and rumour
took care to make the usual additions to the reality. It was currently
reported, that the desperate Cavalier, Peveril of the Peak, had fallen on
a Presbyterian congregation, while engaged in the peaceable exercise of
religion, with a band of armed men—had slain some, desperately
wounded many more, and finally pursued the preacher to his vicarage which
he burned to the ground. Some alleged the clergyman had perished in the
flames; and the most mitigated report bore, that he had only been able to
escape by disposing his gown, cap, and band, near a window, in such a
manner as to deceive them with the idea of his person being still
surrounded by flames, while he himself fled by the back part of the house.
And although few people believed in the extent of the atrocities thus
imputed to our honest Cavalier, yet still enough of obloquy attached to
him to infer very serious consequences, as the reader will learn at a
future period of our history.

CHAPTER IX

Bessus.—'Tis a challenge, sir, is it not?
Gentleman.—'Tis an inviting to the field.
—King and No King.

For a day or two after this forcible expulsion from the vicarage, Mr.
Solsgrace continued his residence at Moultrassie Hall, where the natural
melancholy attendant on his situation added to the gloom of the owner of
the mansion. In the morning, the ejected divine made excursions to
different families in the neighbourhood, to whom his ministry had been
acceptable in the days of his prosperity, and from whose grateful
recollections of that period he now found sympathy and consolation. He did
not require to be condoled with, because he was deprived of an easy and
competent maintenance, and thrust out upon the common of life, after he
had reason to suppose he would be no longer liable to such mutations of
fortune. The piety of Mr. Solsgrace was sincere; and if he had many of the
uncharitable prejudices against other sects, which polemical controversy
had generated, and the Civil War brought to a head, he had also that deep
sense of duty, by which enthusiasm is so often dignified, and held his
very life little, if called upon to lay it down in attestation of the
doctrines in which he believed. But he was soon to prepare for leaving the
district which Heaven, he conceived, had assigned to him as his corner of
the vineyard; he was to abandon his flock to the wolf—was to forsake
those with whom he had held sweet counsel in religious communion—was
to leave the recently converted to relapse into false doctrines, and
forsake the wavering, whom his continued cares might have directed into
the right path,—these were of themselves deep causes of sorrow, and
were aggravated, doubtless, by those natural feelings with which all men,
especially those whose duties or habits have confined them to a limited
circle, regard the separation from wonted scenes, and their accustomed
haunts of solitary musing, or social intercourse.

There was, indeed, a plan of placing Mr. Solsgrace at the head of a
nonconforming congregation in his present parish, which his followers
would have readily consented to endow with a sufficient revenue. But
although the act for universal conformity was not yet passed, such a
measure was understood to be impending, and there existed a general
opinion among the Presbyterians, that in no hands was it likely to be more
strictly enforced, than in those of Peveril of the Peak. Solsgrace himself
considered not only his personal danger as being considerable,—for,
assuming perhaps more consequence than was actually attached to him or his
productions, he conceived the honest Knight to be his mortal and
determined enemy,—but he also conceived that he should serve the
cause of his Church by absenting himself from Derbyshire.

"Less known pastors," he said, "though perhaps more worthy of the name,
may be permitted to assemble the scattered flocks in caverns or in secret
wilds, and to them shall the gleaning of the grapes of Ephraim be better
than the vintage of Abiezer. But I, that have so often carried the banner
forth against the mighty—I, whose tongue hath testified, morning and
evening, like the watchman upon the tower, against Popery, Prelacy, and
the tyrant of the Peak—for me to abide here, were but to bring the
sword of bloody vengeance amongst you, that the shepherd might be smitten,
and the sheep scattered. The shedders of blood have already assailed me,
even within that ground which they themselves call consecrated; and
yourselves have seen the scalp of the righteous broken, as he defended my
cause. Therefore, I will put on my sandals, and gird my loins, and depart
to a far country, and there do as my duty shall call upon me, whether it
be to act or to suffer—to bear testimony at the stake or in the
pulpit."

Such were the sentiments which Mr. Solsgrace expressed to his desponding
friends, and which he expatiated upon at more length with Major
Bridgenorth; not failing, with friendly zeal, to rebuke the haste which
the latter had shown to thrust out the hand of fellowship to the Amalekite
woman, whereby he reminded him, "He had been rendered her slave and
bondsman for a season, like Samson, betrayed by Delilah, and might have
remained longer in the house of Dagon, had not Heaven pointed to him a way
out of the snare. Also, it sprung originally from the Major's going up to
feast in the high place of Baal, that he who was the champion of the truth
was stricken down, and put to shame by the enemy, even in the presence of
the host."

These objurgations seeming to give some offence to Major Bridgenorth, who
liked, no better than any other man, to hear of his own mishaps, and at
the same time to have them imputed to his own misconduct, the worthy
divine proceeded to take shame to himself for his own sinful compliance in
that matter; for to the vengeance justly due for that unhappy dinner at
Martindale Castle (which was, he said, a crying of peace when there was no
peace, and a dwelling in the tents of sin), he imputed his ejection from
his living, with the destruction of some of his most pithy and highly
prized volumes of divinity, with the loss of his cap, gown, and band, and
a double hogshead of choice Derby ale.

The mind of Major Bridgenorth was strongly tinged with devotional feeling,
which his late misfortunes had rendered more deep and solemn; and it is
therefore no wonder, that, when he heard these arguments urged again and
again, by a pastor whom he so much respected, and who was now a confessor
in the cause of their joint faith, he began to look back with disapproval
on his own conduct, and to suspect that he had permitted himself to be
seduced by gratitude towards Lady Peveril, and by her special arguments in
favour of a mutual and tolerating liberality of sentiments, into an action
which had a tendency to compromise his religious and political principles.

One morning, as Major Bridgenorth had wearied himself with several details
respecting the arrangement of his affairs, he was reposing in the leathern
easy-chair, beside the latticed window, a posture which, by natural
association, recalled to him the memory of former times, and the feelings
with which he was wont to expect the recurring visit of Sir Geoffrey, who
brought him news of his child's welfare,—"Surely," he said,
thinking, as it were, aloud, "there was no sin in the kindness with which
I then regarded that man."

Solsgrace, who was in the apartment, and guessed what passed through his
friend's mind, acquainted as he was with every point of his history,
replied—"When God caused Elijah to be fed by ravens, while hiding at
the brook Cherith, we hear not of his fondling the unclean birds, whom,
contrary to their ravening nature, a miracle compelled to minister to
him."

"It may be so," answered Bridgenorth, "yet the flap of their wings must
have been gracious in the ear of the famished prophet, like the tread of
his horse in mine. The ravens, doubtless, resumed their nature when the
season was passed, and even so it has fared with him.—Hark!" he
exclaimed, starting, "I hear his horse's hoof tramp even now."

It was seldom that the echoes of that silent house and courtyard were
awakened by the trampling of horses, but such was now the case.

Both Bridgenorth and Solsgrace were surprised at the sound, and even
disposed to anticipate some farther oppression on the part of the
government, when the Major's old servant introduced, with little ceremony
(for his manners were nearly as plain as his master's), a tall gentleman
on the farther side of middle life, whose vest and cloak, long hair,
slouched hat and drooping feather, announced him as a Cavalier. He bowed
formally, but courteously, to both gentlemen, and said, that he was "Sir
Jasper Cranbourne, charged with an especial message to Master Ralph
Bridgenorth of Moultrassie Hall, by his honourable friend Sir Geoffrey
Peveril of the Peak, and that he requested to know whether Master
Bridgenorth would be pleased to receive his acquittal of commission here
or elsewhere."

"Anything which Sir Geoffrey Peveril can have to say to me," said Major
Bridgenorth, "may be told instantly, and before my friend, from whom I
have no secrets."

"The presence of any other friend were, instead of being objectionable,
the thing in the world most to be desired," said Sir Jasper, after a
moment's hesitation, and looking at Mr. Solsgrace; "but this gentleman
seems to be a sort of clergyman."

"I am not conscious of any secrets," answered Bridgenorth, "nor do I
desire to have any, in which a clergyman is unfitting confidant."

"At your pleasure," replied Sir Jasper. "The confidence, for aught I know,
may be well enough chosen, for your divines (always under your favour)
have proved no enemies to such matters as I am to treat with you upon."

"Proceed, sir," answered Mr. Bridgenorth gravely; "and I pray you to be
seated, unless it is rather your pleasure to stand."

"I must, in the first place, deliver myself of my small commission,"
answered Sir Jasper, drawing himself up; "and it will be after I have seen
the reception thereof, that I shall know whether I am, or am not, to sit
down at Moultrassie Hall.—Sir Geoffrey Peveril, Master Bridgenorth,
hath carefully considered with himself the unhappy circumstances which at
present separate you as neighbours. And he remembers many passages in
former times—I speak his very words—which incline him to do
all that can possibly consist with his honour, to wipe out unkindness
between you; and for this desirable object, he is willing to condescend in
a degree, which, as you could not have expected, it will no doubt give you
great pleasure to learn."

"Allow me to say, Sir Jasper," said Bridgenorth, "that this is
unnecessary. I have made no complaints of Sir Geoffrey—I have
required no submission from him—I am about to leave this country;
and what affairs we may have together, can be as well settled by others as
by ourselves."

"In a word," said the divine, "the worthy Major Bridgenorth hath had
enough of trafficking with the ungodly, and will no longer, on any terms,
consort with them."

"Gentleman both," said Sir Jasper, with imperturbable politeness, bowing,
"you greatly mistake the tenor of my commission, which you will do as well
to hear out, before making any reply to it.—I think, Master
Bridgenorth, you cannot but remember your letter to the Lady Peveril, of
which I have here a rough copy, in which you complain of the hard measure
which you have received at Sir Geoffrey's hand, and, in particular, when
he pulled you from your horse at or near Hartley-nick. Now, Sir Geoffrey
thinks so well of you, as to believe, that, were it not for the wide
difference betwixt his descent and rank and your own, you would have
sought to bring this matter to a gentleman-like arbitrament, as the only
mode whereby your stain may be honourably wiped away. Wherefore, in this
slight note, he gives you, in his generosity, the offer of what you, in
your modesty (for to nothing else does he impute your acquiescence), have
declined to demand of him. And withal, I bring you the measure of his
weapon; and when you have accepted the cartel which I now offer you, I
shall be ready to settle the time, place, and other circumstances of your
meeting."

"And I," said Solsgrace, with a solemn voice, "should the Author of Evil
tempt my friend to accept of so bloodthirsty a proposal, would be the
first to pronounce against him sentence of the greater excommunication."

"It is not you whom I address, reverend sir," replied the envoy; "your
interest, not unnaturally, may determine you to be more anxious about your
patron's life than about his honour. I must know, from himself, to which
he is disposed to give the preference."

So saying, and with a graceful bow, he again tendered the challenge to
Major Bridgenorth. There was obviously a struggle in that gentleman's
bosom, between the suggestions of human honour and those of religious
principle; but the latter prevailed. He calmly waived receiving the paper
which Sir Jasper offered to him, and spoke to the following purpose:—"It
may not be known to you, Sir Jasper, that since the general pouring out of
Christian light upon this kingdom, many solid men have been led to doubt
whether the shedding human blood by the hand of a fellow-creature be in any
respect justifiable. And although this rule appears to me to be scarcely
applicable to our state in this stage of trial, seeing that such
non-resistance, if general, would surrender our civil and religious rights
into the hands of whatsoever daring tyrants might usurp the same; yet I
am, and have been, inclined to limit the use of carnal arms to the case of
necessary self-defence, whether such regards our own person, or the
protection of our country against invasion; or of our rights of property,
and the freedom of our laws and of our conscience, against usurping power.
And as I have never shown myself unwilling to draw my sword in any of the
latter causes, so you shall excuse my suffering it now to remain in the
scabbard, when, having sustained a grievous injury, the man who inflicted
it summons me to combat, either upon an idle punctilio, or, as is more
likely, in mere bravado."

"I have heard you with patience," said Sir Jasper; "and now, Master
Bridgenorth, take it not amiss, if I beseech you to bethink yourself
better on this matter. I vow to Heaven, sir, that your honour lies
a-bleeding; and that in condescending to afford you this fair meeting, and
thereby giving you some chance to stop its wounds, Sir Geoffrey has been
moved by a tender sense of your condition, and an earnest wish to redeem
your dishonour. And it will be but the crossing of your blade with his
honoured sword for the space of some few minutes, and you will either live
or die a noble and honoured gentleman. Besides, that the Knight's
exquisite skill of fence may enable him, as his good-nature will incline
him, to disarm you with some flesh wound, little to the damage of your
person, and greatly to the benefit of your reputation."

"The tender mercies of the wicked," said Master Solsgrace emphatically, by
way of commenting on this speech, which Sir Jasper had uttered very
pathetically, "are cruel."

"I pray to have no farther interruption from your reverence," said Sir
Jasper; "especially as I think this affair very little concerns you; and I
entreat that you permit me to discharge myself regularly of my commission
from my worthy friend."

So saying, he took his sheathed rapier from his belt, and passing the
point through the silk thread which secured the letter, he once more, and
literally at sword point, gracefully tendered it to Major Bridgenorth who
again waved it aside, though colouring deeply at the same time, as if he
was putting a marked constraint upon himself—drew back, and made Sir
Jasper Cranbourne a deep bow.

"Since it is to be thus," said Sir Jasper, "I must myself do violence to
the seal of Sir Geoffrey's letter, and read it to you, that I may fully
acquit myself of the charge entrusted to me, and make you, Master
Bridgenorth, equally aware of the generous intentions of Sir Geoffrey on
your behalf."

"If," said Major Bridgenorth, "the contents of the letter be to no other
purpose than you have intimated, methinks farther ceremony is unnecessary
on this occasion, as I have already taken my course."

"Nevertheless," said Sir Jasper, breaking open the letter, "it is fitting
that I read to you the letter of my worshipful friend." And he read
accordingly as follows:—

"For the worthy hands of Ralph Bridgenorth, Esquire, of
Moultrassie Hall—These:
"By the honoured conveyance of the Worshipful Sir Jasper
Cranbourne, Knight, of Long-Mallington.
"Master Bridgenorth,—We have been given to understand by your
letter to our loving wife, Dame Margaret Peveril, that you hold
hard construction of certain passages betwixt you and I, of a late
date, as if your honour should have been, in some sort, prejudiced
by what then took place. And although you have not thought it fit
to have direct recourse to me, to request such satisfaction as is
due from one gentleman of condition to another, yet I am fully
minded that this proceeds only from modesty, arising out of the
distinction of our degree, and from no lack of that courage which
you have heretofore displayed, I would I could say in a good
cause. Wherefore I am purposed to give you, by my friend, Sir
Jasper Cranbourne, a meeting, for the sake of doing that which
doubtless you entirely long for. Sir Jasper will deliver you the
length of my weapon, and appoint circumstances and an hour for our
meeting; which, whether early or late—on foot or horseback—with
rapier or backsword—I refer to yourself, with all the other
privileges of a challenged person; only desiring, that if you
decline to match my weapon, you will send me forthwith the length
and breadth of your own. And nothing doubting that the issue of
this meeting must needs be to end, in one way or other, all
unkindness betwixt two near neighbours,—I remain, your humble
servant to command,
"Geoffrey Peveril of the Peak."
"Given from my poor house of Martindale Castle, this same ____ of
____, sixteen hundred and sixty."

"Bear back my respects to Sir Geoffrey Peveril," said Major Bridgenorth.
"According to his light, his meaning may be fair towards me; but tell him
that our quarrel had its rise in his own wilful aggression towards me; and
that though I wish to be in charity with all mankind, I am not so wedded
to his friendship as to break the laws of God, and run the risk of
suffering or committing murder, in order to regain it. And for you, sir,
methinks your advanced years and past misfortunes might teach you the
folly of coming on such idle errands."

"I shall do your message, Master Ralph Bridgenorth," said Sir Jasper; "and
shall then endeavour to forget your name, as a sound unfit to be
pronounced, or even remembered, by a man of honour. In the meanwhile, in
return for your uncivil advice, be pleased to accept of mine; namely, that
as your religion prevents your giving a gentleman satisfaction, it ought
to make you very cautious of offering him provocation."

So saying, and with a look of haughty scorn, first at the Major, and then
at the divine, the envoy of Sir Geoffrey put his hat on his head, replaced
his rapier in its belt, and left the apartment. In a few minutes
afterwards, the tread of his horse died away at a considerable distance.

Bridgenorth had held his hand upon his brow ever since his departure, and
a tear of anger and shame was on his face as he raised it when the sound
was heard no more. "He carries this answer to Martindale Castle," he said.
"Men will hereafter think of me as a whipped, beaten, dishonourable
fellow, whom every one may baffle and insult at their pleasure. It is well
I am leaving the house of my father."

Master Solsgrace approached his friend with much sympathy, and grasped him
by the hand. "Noble brother," he said, with unwonted kindness of manner,
"though a man of peace, I can judge what this sacrifice hath cost to thy
manly spirit. But God will not have from us an imperfect obedience. We
must not, like Ananias and Sapphira, reserve behind some darling lust,
some favourite sin, while we pretend to make sacrifice of our worldly
affections. What avails it to say that we have but secreted a little
matter, if the slightest remnant of the accursed thing remain hidden in
our tent? Would it be a defence in thy prayers to say, I have not murdered
this man for the lucre of gain, like a robber—nor for the
acquisition of power, like a tyrant,—nor for the gratification of
revenge, like a darkened savage; but because the imperious voice of
worldly honour said, 'Go forth—kill or be killed—is it not I
that have sent thee?' Bethink thee, my worthy friend, how thou couldst
frame such a vindication in thy prayers; and if thou art forced to tremble
at the blasphemy of such an excuse, remember in thy prayers the thanks due
to Heaven, which enabled thee to resist the strong temptation."

"Reverend and dear friend," answered Bridgenorth, "I feel that you speak
the truth. Bitterer, indeed, and harder, to the old Adam, is the text
which ordains him to suffer shame, than that which bids him to do
valiantly for the truth. But happy am I that my path through the
wilderness of this world will, for some space at least, be along with one,
whose zeal and friendship are so active to support me when I am fainting
in the way."

While the inhabitants of Moultrassie Hall thus communicated together upon
the purport of Sir Jasper Cranbourne's visit, that worthy knight greatly
excited the surprise of Sir Geoffrey Peveril, by reporting the manner in
which his embassy had been received.

"I took him for a man of other metal," said Sir Geoffrey;—"nay, I
would have sworn it, had any one asked my testimony. But there is no
making a silken purse out of a sow's ear. I have done a folly for him that
I will never do for another: and that is, to think a Presbyterian would
fight without his preacher's permission. Give them a two hours' sermon,
and let them howl a psalm to a tune that is worse than the cries of a
flogged hound, and the villains will lay on like threshers; but for a
calm, cool, gentleman-like turn upon the sod, hand to hand, in a
neighbourly way, they have not honour enough to undertake it. But enough
of our crop-eared cur of a neighbour.—Sir Jasper, you will tarry
with us to dine, and see how Dame Margaret's kitchen smokes; and after
dinner I will show you a long-winged falcon fly. She is not mine, but the
Countess's, who brought her from London on her fist almost the whole way,
for all the haste she was in, and left her with me to keep the perch for a
season."

This match was soon arranged, and Dame Margaret overheard the good
Knight's resentment mutter itself off, with those feelings with which we
listen to the last growling of the thunderstorm; which, as the black cloud
sinks beneath the hill, at once assures us that there has been danger, and
that the peril is over. She could not, indeed, but marvel in her own mind
at the singular path of reconciliation with his neighbour which her
husband had, with so much confidence, and in the actual sincerity of his
goodwill to Mr. Bridgenorth, attempted to open; and she blessed God
internally that it had not terminated in bloodshed. But these reflections
she locked carefully within her own bosom, well knowing that they referred
to subjects in which the Knight of the Peak would neither permit his
sagacity to be called in question, nor his will to be controlled.

The progress of the history hath hitherto been slow; but after this period
so little matter worth of mark occurred at Martindale, that we must hurry
over hastily the transactions of several years.

CHAPTER X

Cleopatra.—Give me to drink mandragora,
That I may sleep away this gap of time.
—Antony and Cleopatra.

There passed, as we hinted at the conclusion of the last chapter, four or
five years after the period we have dilated upon; the events of which
scarcely require to be discussed, so far as our present purpose is
concerned, in as many lines. The Knight and his Lady continued to reside
at their Castle—she, with prudence and with patience, endeavouring
to repair the damages which the Civil Wars had inflicted upon their
fortune; and murmuring a little when her plans of economy were interrupted
by the liberal hospitality, which was her husband's principal expense, and
to which he was attached, not only from his own English heartiness of
disposition, but from ideas of maintaining the dignity of his ancestry—no
less remarkable, according to the tradition of their buttery, kitchen, and
cellar, for the fat beeves which they roasted, and the mighty ale which
they brewed, than for their extensive estates, and the number of their
retainers.

The world, however, upon the whole, went happily and easily with the
worthy couple. Sir Geoffrey's debt to his neighbour Bridgenorth continued,
it is true, unabated; but he was the only creditor upon the Martindale
estate—all others being paid off. It would have been most desirable
that this encumbrance also should be cleared, and it was the great object
of Dame Margaret's economy to effect the discharge; for although interest
was regularly settled with Master Win-the-Fight, the Chesterfield
attorney, yet the principal sum, which was a large one, might be called
for at an inconvenient time. The man, too, was gloomy, important, and
mysterious, and always seemed as if he was thinking upon his broken head
in the churchyard of Martindale-cum-Moultrassie.

Dame Margaret sometimes transacted the necessary business with him in
person; and when he came to the Castle on these occasions, she thought she
saw a malicious and disobliging expression in his manner and countenance.
Yet his actual conduct was not only fair, but liberal; for indulgence was
given, in the way of delay of payment, whenever circumstances rendered it
necessary to the debtor to require it. It seemed to Lady Peveril that the
agent, in such cases, was acting under the strict orders of his absent
employer, concerning whose welfare she could not help feeling a certain
anxiety.

Shortly after the failure of the singular negotiation for attaining peace
by combat, which Peveril had attempted to open with Major Bridgenorth,
that gentleman left his seat of Moultrassie Hall in the care of his old
housekeeper, and departed, no one knew whither, having in company with him
his daughter Alice and Mrs. Deborah Debbitch, now formally installed in
all the duties of a governante; to these was added the Reverend Master
Solsgrace. For some time public rumour persisted in asserting, that Major
Bridgenorth had only retreated to a distant part of the country for a
season, to achieve his supposed purpose of marrying Mrs. Deborah, and of
letting the news be cold, and the laugh of the neighbourhood be ended, ere
he brought her down as mistress of Moultrassie Hall. This rumour died
away; and it was then affirmed, that he had removed to foreign parts, to
ensure the continuance of health in so delicate a constitution as that of
little Alice. But when the Major's dread of Popery was remembered,
together with the still deeper antipathies of worthy Master Nehemiah
Solsgrace, it was resolved unanimously, that nothing less than what they
might deem a fair chance of converting the Pope would have induced the
parties to trust themselves within Catholic dominions. The most prevailing
opinion was, that they had gone to New England, the refuge then of many
whom too intimate concern with the affairs of the late times, or the
desire of enjoying uncontrolled freedom of conscience, had induced to
emigrate from Britain.

Lady Peveril could not help entertaining a vague idea, that Bridgenorth
was not so distant. The extreme order in which everything was maintained
at Moultrassie Hall, seemed—no disparagement to the care of Dame
Dickens the housekeeper, and the other persons engaged—to argue,
that the master's eye was not so very far off, but that its occasional
inspection might be apprehended. It is true, that neither the domestics
nor the attorney answered any questions respecting the residence of Master
Bridgenorth; but there was an air of mystery about them when interrogated,
that seemed to argue more than met the ear.

About five years after Master Bridgenorth had left the country, a singular
incident took place. Sir Geoffrey was absent at the Chesterfield races,
and Lady Peveril, who was in the habit of walking around every part of the
neighbourhood unattended, or only accompanied by Ellesmere, or her little
boy, had gone down one evening upon a charitable errand to a solitary hut,
whose inhabitant lay sick of a fever, which was supposed to be infectious.
Lady Peveril never allowed apprehensions of this kind to stop "devoted
charitable deeds;" but she did not choose to expose either her son or her
attendant to the risk which she herself, in some confidence that she knew
precautions for escaping the danger, did not hesitate to incur.

Lady Peveril had set out at a late hour in the evening, and the way proved
longer than she expected—several circumstances also occurred to
detain her at the hut of her patient. It was a broad autumn moonlight,
when she prepared to return homeward through the broken glades and upland
which divided her from the Castle. This she considered as a matter of very
little importance, in so quiet and sequestered a country, where the road
lay chiefly through her own domains, especially as she had a lad about
fifteen years old, the son of her patient, to escort her on the way. The
distance was better than two miles, but might be considerably abridged by
passing through an avenue belonging to the estate of Moultrassie Hall,
which she had avoided as she came, not from the ridiculous rumours which
pronounced it to be haunted, but because her husband was much displeased
when any attempt was made to render the walks of the Castle and Hall
common to the inhabitants of both. The good lady, in consideration,
perhaps, of extensive latitude allowed to her in the more important
concerns of the family, made a point of never interfering with her
husband's whims or prejudices; and it is a compromise which we would
heartily recommend to all managing matrons of our acquaintance; for it is
surprising how much real power will be cheerfully resigned to the fair
sex, for the pleasure of being allowed to ride one's hobby in peace and
quiet.

Upon the present occasion, however, although the Dobby's Walk[*] was
within the inhabited domains of the Hall, the Lady Peveril determined to
avail herself of it, for the purpose of shortening her road home, and she
directed her steps accordingly. But when the peasant-boy, her companion,
who had hitherto followed her, whistling cheerily, with a hedge-bill in
his hand, and his hat on one side, perceived that she turned to the stile
which entered to the Dobby's Walk, he showed symptoms of great fear, and
at length coming to the lady's side, petitioned her, in a whimpering tone,—"Don't
ye now—don't ye now, my lady, don't ye go yonder."

[*] Dobby, an old English name for goblin.

Lady Peveril, observing that his teeth chattered in his head, and that his
whole person exhibited great signs of terror, began to recollect the
report, that the first Squire of Moultrassie, the brewer of Chesterfield,
who had brought the estate, and then died of melancholy for lack of
something to do (and, as was said, not without suspicions of suicide), was
supposed to walk in this sequestered avenue, accompanied by a large
headless mastiff, which, when he was alive, was a particular favourite of
the ex-brewer. To have expected any protection from her escort, in the
condition to which superstitious fear had reduced him, would have been
truly a hopeless trust; and Lady Peveril, who was not apprehensive of any
danger, thought there would be great cruelty in dragging the cowardly boy
into a scene which he regarded with so much apprehension. She gave him,
therefore, a silver piece, and permitted him to return. The latter boon
seemed even more acceptable than the first; for ere she could return the
purse into her pocket, she heard the wooden clogs of her bold convoy in
full retreat, by the way from whence they came.

Smiling within herself at the fear she esteemed so ludicrous, Lady Peveril
ascended the stile, and was soon hidden from the broad light of the
moonbeams, by the numerous and entangled boughs of the huge elms, which,
meeting from either side, totally overarched the old avenue. The scene was
calculated to excite solemn thoughts; and the distant glimmer of a light
from one of the numerous casements in the front of Moultrassie Hall, which
lay at some distance, was calculated to make them even melancholy. She
thought of the fate of that family—of the deceased Mrs. Bridgenorth,
with whom she had often walked in this very avenue, and who, though a
woman of no high parts or accomplishments, had always testified the
deepest respect, and the most earnest gratitude, for such notice as she
had shown to her. She thought of her blighted hopes—her premature
death—the despair of her self-banished husband—the uncertain
fate of their orphan child, for whom she felt, even at this distance of
time, some touch of a mother's affection.

Upon such sad subjects her thoughts were turned, when, just as she
attained the middle of the avenue, the imperfect and checkered light which
found its way through the silvan archway, showed her something which
resembled the figure of a man. Lady Peveril paused a moment, but instantly
advanced;—her bosom, perhaps, gave one startled throb, as a debt to
the superstitious belief of the times, but she instantly repelled the
thought of supernatural appearances. From those that were merely mortal,
she had nothing to fear. A marauder on the game was the worst character
whom she was likely to encounter; and he would be sure to hide himself
from her observation. She advanced, accordingly, steadily; and, as she did
so, had the satisfaction to observe that the figure, as she expected, gave
place to her, and glided away amongst the trees on the left-hand side of
the avenue. As she passed the spot on which the form had been so lately
visible, and bethought herself that this wanderer of the night might, nay
must, be in her vicinity, her resolution could not prevent her mending her
pace, and that with so little precaution, that, stumbling over the limb of
a tree, which, twisted off by a late tempest, still lay in the avenue, she
fell, and, as she fell, screamed aloud. A strong hand in a moment
afterwards added to her fears by assisting her to rise, and a voice, to
whose accents she was not a stranger, though they had been long unheard,
said, "Is it not you, Lady Peveril?"

"It is I," said she, commanding her astonishment and fear; "and if my ear
deceive me not, I speak to Master Bridgenorth."

"I was that man," said he, "while oppression left me a name."

He spoke nothing more, but continued to walk beside her for a minute or
two in silence. She felt her situation embarrassing; and to divest it of
that feeling, as well as out of real interest in the question, she asked
him, "How her god-daughter Alice now was?"

"Of god-daughter, madam," answered Major Bridgenorth, "I know nothing;
that being one of the names which have been introduced, to the corruption
and pollution of God's ordinances. The infant who owed to your ladyship
(so called) her escape from disease and death, is a healthy and thriving
girl, as I am given to understand by those in whose charge she is lodged,
for I have not lately seen her. And it is even the recollection of these
passages, which in a manner impelled me, alarmed also by your fall, to
offer myself to you at this time and mode, which in other respects is no
way consistent with my present safety."

"With your safety, Master Bridgenorth?" said the Lady Peveril; "surely, I
could never have thought that it was in danger!"

"You have some news, then, yet to learn, madam," said Major Bridgenorth;
"but you will hear in the course of tomorrow, reasons why I dare not
appear openly in the neighbourhood of my own property, and wherefore there
is small judgment in committing the knowledge of my present residence to
any one connected with Martindale Castle."

"Master Bridgenorth," said the lady, "you were in former times prudent and
cautious—I hope you have been misled by no hasty impression—by
no rash scheme—I hope——"

"Pardon my interrupting you, madam," said Bridgenorth. "I have indeed been
changed—ay, my very heart within me hath been changed. In the times
to which your ladyship (so called) thinks proper to refer, I was a man of
this world—bestowing on it all my thoughts—all my actions,
save formal observances—little deeming what was the duty of a
Christian man, and how far his self-denial ought to extend—even unto
his giving all as if he gave nothing. Hence I thought chiefly on carnal
things—on the adding of field to field, and wealth to wealth—of
balancing between party and party—securing a friend here, without
losing a friend there—But Heaven smote me for my apostasy, the
rather that I abused the name of religion, as a self-seeker, and a most
blinded and carnal will-worshipper—But I thank Him who hath at
length brought me out of Egypt."

In our day—although we have many instances of enthusiasm among us—we
might still suspect one who avowed it thus suddenly and broadly of
hypocrisy, or of insanity; but according to the fashion of the times, such
opinions as those which Bridgenorth expressed were openly pleaded, as the
ruling motives of men's actions. The sagacious Vane—the brave and
skilful Harrison—were men who acted avowedly under the influence of
such. Lady Peveril, therefore, was more grieved than surprised at the
language she heard Major Bridgenorth use, and reasonably concluded that
the society and circumstances in which he might lately have been engaged,
had blown into a flame the spark of eccentricity which always smouldered
in his bosom. This was the more probable, considering that he was
melancholy by constitution and descent—that he had been unfortunate
in several particulars—and that no passion is more easily nursed by
indulgence, than the species of enthusiasm of which he now showed tokens.
She therefore answered him by calmly hoping, "That the expression of his
sentiments had not involved him in suspicion or in danger."

"In suspicion, madam?" answered the Major;—"for I cannot forbear
giving to you, such is the strength of habit, one of those idle titles by
which we poor potsherds are wont, in our pride, to denominate each other—I
walk not only in suspicion, but in that degree of danger, that, were your
husband to meet me at this instant—me, a native Englishman, treading
on my own lands—I have no doubt he would do his best to offer me to
the Moloch of Roman superstition, who now rages abroad for victims among
God's people."

"You surprise me by your language, Major Bridgenorth," said the lady, who
now felt rather anxious to be relieved from his company, and with that
purpose walked on somewhat hastily. He mended his pace, however, and kept
close by her side.

"Know you not," said he, "that Satan hath come down upon earth with great
wrath, because his time is short? The next heir to the crown is an avowed
Papist; and who dare assert, save sycophants and time-servers, that he who
wears it is not equally ready to stoop to Rome, were he not kept in awe by
a few noble spirits in the Commons' House? You believe not this—yet
in my solitary and midnight walks, when I thought on your kindness to the
dead and to the living, it was my prayer that I might have the means
granted to warn you—and lo! Heaven hath heard me."

"What I was while in the gall of bitterness and in the bond of iniquity,
it signifies not to recall," answered he. "I was then like to Gallio, who
cared for none of these things. I doted on creature comforts—I clung
to worldly honour and repute—my thoughts were earthward—or
those I turned to Heaven were cold, formal, pharisaical meditations—I
brought nothing to the altar save straw and stubble. Heaven saw need to
chastise me in love—I was stript of all I clung to on earth—my
worldly honour was torn from me—I went forth an exile from the home
of my fathers, a deprived and desolate man—a baffled, and beaten,
and dishonoured man. But who shall find out the ways of Providence? Such
were the means by which I was chosen forth as a champion for the truth—holding
my life as nothing, if thereby that may be advanced. But this was not what
I wished to speak of. Thou hast saved the earthly life of my child—let
me save the eternal welfare of yours."

Lady Peveril was silent. They were now approaching the point where the
avenue terminated in a communication with a public road, or rather
pathway, running through an unenclosed common field; this the lady had to
prosecute for a little way, until a turn of the path gave her admittance
into the Park of Martindale. She now felt sincerely anxious to be in the
open moonshine, and avoided reply to Bridgenorth that she might make the
more haste. But as they reached the junction of the avenue and the public
road, he laid his hand on her arm, and commanded rather than requested her
to stop. She obeyed. He pointed to a huge oak, of the largest size, which
grew on the summit of a knoll in the open ground which terminated the
avenue, and was exactly so placed as to serve for a termination to the
vista. The moonshine without the avenue was so strong, that, amidst the
flood of light which it poured on the venerable tree, they could easily
discover, from the shattered state of the boughs on one side, that it had
suffered damage from lightning. "Remember you," he said, "when we last
looked together on that tree? I had ridden from London, and brought with
me a protection from the committee for your husband; and as I passed the
spot—here on this spot where we now stand, you stood with my lost
Alice—two—the last two of my beloved infants gambolled before
you. I leaped from my horse—to her I was a husband—to those a
father—to you a welcome and revered protector—What am I now to
any one?" He pressed his hand on his brow, and groaned in agony of spirit.

It was not in the Lady Peveril's nature to hear sorrow without an attempt
at consolation. "Master Bridgenorth," she said, "I blame no man's creed,
while I believe and follow my own; and I rejoice that in yours you have
sought consolation for temporal afflictions. But does not every Christian
creed teach us alike, that affliction should soften our heart?"

"Ay, woman," said Bridgenorth sternly, "as the lightning which shattered
yonder oak hath softened its trunk. No; the seared wood is the fitter for
the use of the workmen—the hardened and the dried-up heart is that
which can best bear the task imposed by these dismal times. God and man
will no longer endure the unbridled profligacy of the dissolute—the
scoffing of the profane—the contempt of the divine laws—the
infraction of human rights. The times demand righters and avengers, and
there will be no want of them."

"I deny not the existence of much evil," said Lady Peveril, compelling
herself to answer, and beginning at the same time to walk forward; "and
from hearsay, though not, I thank Heaven, from observation, I am convinced
of the wild debauchery of the times. But let us trust it may be corrected
without such violent remedies as you hint at. Surely the ruin of a second
civil war—though I trust your thoughts go not that dreadful length—were
at best a desperate alternative."

"Sharp, but sure," replied Bridgenorth. "The blood of the Paschal lamb
chased away the destroying angel—the sacrifices offered on the
threshing-floor of Araunah, stayed the pestilence. Fire and sword are
severe remedies, but they pure and purify."

"Alas! Major Bridgenorth," said the lady, "wise and moderate in your
youth, can you have adopted in your advanced life the thoughts and
language of those whom you yourself beheld drive themselves and the nation
to the brink of ruin?"

"I know not what I then was—you know not what I now am," he replied,
and suddenly broke off; for they even then came forth into the open light,
and it seemed as if, feeling himself under the lady's eye, he was disposed
to soften his tone and his language.

At the first distinct view which she had of his person, she was aware that
he was armed with a short sword, a poniard, and pistols at his belt—precautions
very unusual for a man who formerly had seldom, and only on days of
ceremony, carried a walking rapier, though such was the habitual and
constant practice of gentlemen of his station in life. There seemed also
something of more stern determination than usual in his air, which indeed
had always been rather sullen than affable; and ere she could repress the
sentiment, she could not help saying, "Master Bridgenorth, you are indeed
changed."

"You see but the outward man," he replied; "the change within is yet
deeper. But it was not of myself that I desired to talk—I have
already said, that as you have preserved my child from the darkness of the
grave, I would willingly preserve yours from that more utter darkness,
which, I fear, hath involved the path and walks of his father."

"I must not hear this of Sir Geoffrey," said the Lady Peveril; "I must bid
you farewell for the present; and when we again meet at a more suitable
time, I will at least listen to your advice concerning Julian, although I
should not perhaps incline to it."

"That more suitable time may never come," replied Bridgenorth. "Time
wanes, eternity draws nigh. Hearken! it is said to be your purpose to send
the young Julian to be bred up in yonder bloody island, under the hand of
your kinswoman, that cruel murderess, by whom was done to death a man more
worthy of vital existence than any that she can boast among her vaunted
ancestry. These are current tidings—Are they true?"

"I do not blame you, Master Bridgenorth, for thinking harshly of my cousin
of Derby," said Lady Peveril; "nor do I altogether vindicate the rash
action of which she hath been guilty. Nevertheless, in her habitation, it
is my husband's opinion and my own, that Julian may be trained in the
studies and accomplishments becoming his rank, along with the young Earl
of Derby."

"Under the curse of God, and the blessing of the Pope of Rome," said
Bridgenorth. "You, lady, so quick-sighted in matters of earthly prudence,
are you blind to the gigantic pace at which Rome is moving to regain this
country, once the richest gem in her usurped tiara? The old are seduced by
gold—the youth by pleasure—the weak by flattery—cowards
by fear—and the courageous by ambition. A thousand baits for each
taste, and each bait concealing the same deadly hook."

"I am well aware, Master Bridgenorth," said Lady Peveril, "that my
kinswoman is a Catholic;[*] but her son is educated in the Church of
England's principles, agreeably to the command of her deceased husband."

[*] I have elsewhere noticed that this is a deviation from
the truth Charlotte, Countess of Derby, was a Huguenot.

"Is it likely," answered Bridgenorth, "that she, who fears not shedding
the blood of the righteous, whether on the field or scaffold, will regard
the sanction of her promise when her religion bids her break it? Or, if
she does, what shall your son be the better, if he remain in the mire of
his father? What are your Episcopal tenets but mere Popery? save that ye
have chosen a temporal tyrant for your Pope, and substitute a mangled mass
in English for that which your predecessors pronounced in Latin.—But
why speak I of these things to one who hath ears, indeed, and eyes, yet
cannot see, listen to, or understand what is alone worthy to be heard,
seen, and known? Pity that what hath been wrought so fair and exquisite in
form and disposition, should be yet blind, deaf, and ignorant, like the
things which perish!"

"We shall not agree on these subjects, Master Bridgenorth," said the lady,
anxious still to escape from this strange conference, though scarce
knowing what to apprehend; "once more, I must bid you farewell."

"Stay yet an instant," he said, again laying his hand on her arm; "I would
stop you if I saw you rushing on the brink of an actual precipice—let
me prevent you from a danger still greater. How shall I work upon your
unbelieving mind? Shall I tell you that the debt of bloodshed yet remains
a debt to be paid by the bloody house of Derby? And wilt thou send thy son
to be among those from whom it shall be exacted?"

"You wish to alarm me in vain, Master Bridgenorth," answered the lady;
"what penalty can be exacted from the Countess, for an action, which I
have already called a rash one, has been long since levied."

"You deceive yourself," retorted he sternly. "Think you a paltry sum of
money, given to be wasted on the debaucheries of Charles, can atone for
the death of such a man as Christian—a man precious alike to heaven
and to earth? Not on such terms is the blood of the righteous to be poured
forth! Every hour's delay is numbered down as adding interest to the
grievous debt, which will one day be required from that blood-thirsty
woman."

At this moment the distant tread of horses was heard on the road on which
they held this singular dialogue. Bridgenorth listened a moment, and then
said, "Forget that you have seen me—name not my name to your nearest
or dearest—lock my counsel in your breast—profit by it, and it
shall be well with you."

So saying, he turned from her, and plunging through a gap in the fence,
regained the cover of his own wood, along which the path still led.

The noise of horses advancing at full trot now came nearer; and Lady
Peveril was aware of several riders, whose forms rose indistinctly on the
summit of the rising ground behind her. She became also visible to them;
and one or two of the foremost made towards her at increased speed,
challenging her as they advanced with the cry of "Stand! Who goes there?"
The foremost who came up, however, exclaimed, "Mercy on us, if it be not
my lady!" and Lady Peveril, at the same moment, recognised one of her own
servants. Her husband rode up immediately afterwards, with, "How now, Dame
Margaret? What makes you abroad so far from home and at an hour so late?"

Lady Peveril mentioned her visit at the cottage, but did not think it
necessary to say aught of having seen Major Bridgenorth; afraid, it may
be, that her husband might be displeased with that incident.

"Charity is a fine thing and a fair," answered Sir Geoffrey; "but I must
tell you, you do ill, dame, to wander about the country like a
quacksalver, at the call of every old woman who has a colic-fit; and at
this time of night especially, and when the land is so unsettled besides."

"I am sorry to hear that it so," said the lady. "I had heard no such
news."

"News?" repeated Sir Geoffrey, "why, here has a new plot broken out among
the Roundheads, worse than Venner's by a butt's length;[*] and who should
be so deep in it as our old neighbour Bridgenorth? There is search for him
everywhere; and I promise you if he is found, he is like to pay old
scores."

[*] The celebrated insurrection of the Anabaptists and Fifth Monarchy
men in London, in the year 1661.

"Then I am sure, I trust he will not be found," said Lady Peveril.

"Do you so?" replied Sir Geoffrey. "Now I, on my part hope that he will;
and it shall not be my fault if he be not; for which effect I will
presently ride down to Moultrassie, and make strict search, according to
my duty; there shall neither rebel nor traitor earth so near Martindale
Castle, that I will assure them. And you, my lady, be pleased for once to
dispense with a pillion, and get up, as you have done before, behind
Saunders, who shall convey you safe home."

The Lady obeyed in silence; indeed she did not dare to trust her voice in
an attempt to reply, so much was she disconcerted with the intelligence
she had just heard.

She rode behind the groom to the Castle, where she awaited in great
anxiety the return of her husband. He came back at length; but to her
great relief, without any prisoner. He then explained more fully than his
haste had before permitted, that an express had come down to Chesterfield,
with news from Court of a proposed insurrection amongst the old
Commonwealth men, especially those who had served in the army; and that
Bridgenorth, said to be lurking in Derbyshire, was one of the principal
conspirators.

After some time, this report of a conspiracy seemed to die away like many
others of that period. The warrants were recalled, but nothing more was
seen or heard of Major Bridgenorth; although it is probable he might
safely enough have shown himself as openly as many did who lay under the
same circumstances of suspicion.

About this time also, Lady Peveril, with many tears, took a temporary
leave of her son Julian, who was sent, as had long been intended, for the
purpose of sharing the education of the young Earl of Derby. Although the
boding words of Bridgenorth sometimes occurred to Lady Peveril's mind, she
did not suffer them to weigh with her in opposition to the advantages
which the patronage of the Countess of Derby secured to her son.

The plan seemed to be in every respect successful; and when, from time to
time, Julian visited the house of his father, Lady Peveril had the
satisfaction to see him, on every occasion, improved in person and in
manner, as well as ardent in the pursuit of more solid acquirements. In
process of time he became a gallant and accomplished youth, and travelled
for some time upon the continent with the young Earl. This was the more
especially necessary for the enlarging of their acquaintance with the
world; because the Countess had never appeared in London, or at the Court
of King Charles, since her flight to the Isle of Man in 1660; but had
resided in solitary and aristocratic state, alternately on her estates in
England and in that island.

This had given to the education of both the young men, otherwise as
excellent as the best teachers could render it, something of a narrow and
restricted character; but though the disposition of the young Earl was
lighter and more volatile than that of Julian, both the one and the other
had profited, in a considerable degree, by the opportunities afforded
them. It was Lady Derby's strict injunction to her son, now returning from
the continent, that he should not appear at the Court of Charles. But
having been for some time of age, he did not think it absolutely necessary
to obey her in this particular; and had remained for some time in London,
partaking the pleasures of the gay Court there, with all the ardour of a
young man bred up in comparative seclusion.

In order to reconcile the Countess to this transgression of her authority
(for he continued to entertain for her the profound respect in which he
had been educated), Lord Derby agreed to make a long sojourn with her in
her favourite island, which he abandoned almost entirely to her
management.

Julian Peveril had spent at Martindale Castle a good deal of the time
which his friend had bestowed in London; and at the period to which,
passing over many years, our story has arrived, as it were, per saltum,
they were both living as the Countess's guests, in the Castle of Rushin,
in the venerable kingdom of Man.

CHAPTER XI

Mona—long hid from those who roam the main.
—COLLINS.

The Isle of Man, in the middle of the seventeenth century, was very
different, as a place of residence, from what it is now. Men had not then
discovered its merit as a place of occasional refuge from the storms of
life, and the society to be there met with was of a very uniform tenor.
There were no smart fellows, whom fortune had tumbled from the seat of
their barouches—no plucked pigeons or winged rooks—no
disappointed speculators—no ruined miners—in short, no one
worth talking to. The society of the island was limited to the natives
themselves, and a few merchants, who lived by contraband trade. The
amusements were rare and monotonous, and the mercurial young Earl was soon
heartily tired of his dominions. The islanders, also, become too wise for
happiness, had lost relish for the harmless and somewhat childish sports
in which their simple ancestors had indulged themselves. May was no longer
ushered in by the imaginary contest between the Queen of returning winter
and advancing spring; the listeners no longer sympathised with the lively
music of the followers of the one, or the discordant sounds with which the
other asserted a more noisy claim to attention. Christmas, too, closed,
and the steeples no longer jangled forth a dissonant peal. The wren, to
seek for which used to be the sport dedicated to the holytide, was left
unpursued and unslain. Party spirit had come among these simple people,
and destroyed their good humour, while it left them their ignorance. Even
the races, a sport generally interesting to people of all ranks, were no
longer performed, because they were no longer interesting. The gentlemen
were divided by feuds hitherto unknown, and each seemed to hold it scorn
to be pleased with the same diversions that amused those of the opposite
faction. The hearts of both parties revolted from the recollection of
former days, when all was peace among them, when the Earl of Derby, now
slaughtered, used to bestow the prize, and Christian, since so
vindictively executed, started horses to add to the amusement.

Julian was seated in the deep recess which led to a latticed window of the
old Castle; and, with his arms crossed, and an air of profound
contemplation, was surveying the long perspective of ocean, which rolled
its successive waves up to the foot of the rock on which the ancient pile
is founded. The Earl was suffering under the infliction of ennui—now
looking into a volume of Homer—now whistling—now swinging on
his chair—now traversing the room—till, at length, his
attention became swallowed up in admiration of the tranquillity of his
companion.

"King of Men!" he said, repeating the favourite epithet by which Homer
describes Agamemnon,—"I trust, for the old Greek's sake, he had a
merrier office than being King of Man—Most philosophical Julian,
will nothing rouse thee—not even a bad pun on my own royal dignity?"

"I wish you would be a little more the King in Man," said Julian, starting
from his reverie, "and then you would find more amusement in your
dominions."

"What! dethrone that royal Semiramis my mother," said the young lord, "who
has as much pleasure in playing Queen as if she were a real Sovereign?—I
wonder you can give me such counsel."

"Your mother, as you well know, my dear Derby, would be delighted, did you
take any interest in the affairs of the island."

"Ay, truly, she would permit me to be King; but she would choose to remain
Viceroy over me. Why, she would only gain a subject the more, by my
converting my spare time, which is so very valuable to me, to the cares of
royalty. No, no, Julian, she thinks it power, to direct all the affairs of
these poor Manxmen; and, thinking it power, she finds it pleasure. I shall
not interfere, unless she hold a high court of justice again. I cannot
afford to pay another fine to my brother, King Charles—But I forget—this
is a sore point with you."

"With the Countess, at least," replied Julian; "and I wonder you will
speak of it."

"Why, I bear no malice against the poor man's memory any more than
yourself, though I have not the same reasons for holding it in
veneration," replied the Earl of Derby; "and yet I have some respect for
it too. I remember their bringing him out to die—It was the first
holiday I ever had in my life, and I heartily wish it had been on some
other account."

"I would rather hear you speak of anything else, my lord," said Julian.

"Why, there it goes," answered the Earl; "whenever I talk of anything that
puts you on your mettle, and warms your blood, that runs as cold as a
merman's—to use a simile of this happy island—hey pass! you
press me to change the subject.—Well, what shall we talk of?—O
Julian, if you had not gone down to earth yourself among the castles and
caverns of Derbyshire, we should have had enough of delicious topics—the
play-houses, Julian—Both the King's house and the Duke's—Louis's
establishment is a jest to them;—and the Ring in the Park, which
beats the Corso at Naples—and the beauties, who beat the whole
world!"

"I am very willing to hear you speak on the subject, my lord," answered
Julian; "the less I have seen of London world myself, the more I am likely
to be amused by your account of it."

"Ay, my friend—but where to begin?—with the wit of Buckingham,
and Sedley, and Etherege, or with the grace of Harry Jermyn—the
courtesy of the Duke of Monmouth, or with the loveliness of La Belle
Hamilton—of the Duchess of Richmond—of Lady ——,
the person of Roxalana, the smart humour of Mrs. Nelly——"

"Or what say you to the bewitching sorceries of Lady Cynthia?" demanded
his companion.

"Faith, I would have kept these to myself," said the Earl, "to follow your
prudent example. But since you ask me, I fairly own I cannot tell what to
say of them; only I think of them twenty times as often as all the
beauties I have spoken of. And yet she is neither the twentieth part so
beautiful as the plainest of these Court beauties, nor so witty as the
dullest I have named, nor so modish—that is the great matter—as
the most obscure. I cannot tell what makes me dote on her, except that she
is a capricious as her whole sex put together."

"That I should think a small recommendation," answered his companion.

"Small, do you term it," replied the Earl, "and write yourself a brother
of the angle? Why, which like you best? to pull a dead strain on a
miserable gudgeon, which you draw ashore by main force, as the fellows
here tow in their fishing-boats—or a lively salmon, that makes your
rod crack, and your line whistle—plays you ten thousand mischievous
pranks—wearies your heart out with hopes and fears—and is only
laid panting on the bank, after you have shown the most unmatchable
display of skill, patience, and dexterity?—But I see you have a mind
to go on angling after your own old fashion. Off laced coat, and on brown
jerkin;—lively colours scare fish in the sober waters of the Isle of
Man;—faith, in London you will catch few, unless the bait glistens a
little. But you are going?—Well, good luck to you. I will
take to the barge;—the sea and wind are less inconstant than the
tide you have embarked on."

"You have learned to say all these smart things in London, my lord,"
answered Julian; "but we shall have you a penitent for them, if Lady
Cynthia be of my mind. Adieu, and pleasure till we meet."

The young men parted accordingly; and while the Earl betook him to his
pleasure voyage, Julian, as his friend had prophesied, assumed the dress
of one who means to amuse himself with angling. The hat and feather were
exchanged for a cap of grey cloth; the deeply-laced cloak and doublet for
a simple jacket of the same colour, with hose conforming; and finally,
with rod in hand, and pannier at his back, mounted upon a handsome Manx
pony, young Peveril rode briskly over the country which divided him from
one of those beautiful streams that descend to the sea from the
Kirk-Merlagh mountains.

Having reached the spot where he meant to commence his day's sport, Julian
let his little steed graze, which, accustomed to the situation, followed
him like a dog; and now and then, when tired of picking herbage in the
valley through which the stream winded, came near her master's side, and,
as if she had been a curious amateur of the sport, gazed on the trouts as
Julian brought them struggling to the shore. But Fairy's master showed, on
that day, little of the patience of a real angler, and took no heed to old
Isaac Walton's recommendation, to fish the streams inch by inch. He chose,
indeed, with an angler's eye, the most promising casts, which the stream
broke sparkling over a stone, affording the wonted shelter to a trout; or
where, gliding away from a rippling current to a still eddy it streamed
under the projecting bank, or dashed from the pool of some low cascade. By
this judicious selection of spots whereon to employ his art, the
sportsman's basket was soon sufficiently heavy, to show that his
occupation was not a mere pretext; and so soon as this was the case, he
walked briskly up the glen, only making a cast from time to time, in case
of his being observed from any of the neighbouring heights.

It was a little green and rocky valley through which the brook strayed,
very lonely, although the slight track of an unformed road showed that it
was occasionally traversed, and that it was not altogether void of
inhabitants. As Peveril advanced still farther, the right bank reached to
some distance from the stream, leaving a piece of meadow ground, the lower
part of which, being close to the brook, was entirely covered with rich
herbage, being possibly occasionally irrigated by its overflow. The higher
part of the level ground afforded a stance for an old house, of singular
structure, with a terraced garden, and a cultivated field or two beside
it. In former times, a Danish or Norwegian fastness had stood here, called
the Black Fort, from the colour of a huge healthy hill, which, rising
behind the building, appeared to be the boundary of the valley, and to
afford the source of the brook. But the original structure had been long
demolished, as, indeed, it probably only consisted of dry stones, and its
materials had been applied to the construction of the present mansion—the
work of some churchman during the sixteenth century, as was evident from
the huge stone-work of its windows, which scarce left room for light to
pass through, as well as from two or three heavy buttresses, which
projected from the front of the house, and exhibited on their surface
little niches for images. These had been carefully destroyed, and pots of
flowers were placed in the niches in their stead, besides their being
ornamented by creeping plants of various kinds, fancifully twined around
them. The garden was also in good order; and though the spot was extremely
solitary, there was about it altogether an air of comfort, accommodation,
and even elegance, by no means generally characteristic of the habitations
of the island at the time.

With much circumspection, Julian Peveril approached the low Gothic porch,
which defended the entrance of the mansion from the tempests incident to
its situation, and was, like the buttresses, overrun with ivy and other
creeping plants. An iron ring, contrived so as when drawn up and down to
rattle against the bar of notched iron through which it was suspended,
served the purpose of a knocker; and to this he applied himself, though
with the greatest precaution.

He received no answer for some time, and indeed it seemed as if the house
was totally uninhabited; when, at length, his impatience getting the upper
hand, he tried to open the door, and, as it was only upon the latch, very
easily succeeded. He passed through a little low-arched hall, the upper
end of which was occupied by a staircase, and turning to the left, opened
the door of a summer parlour, wainscoted with black oak, and very simply
furnished with chairs and tables of the same materials; the former
cushioned with the leather. The apartment was gloomy—one of those
stone-shafted windows which we have mentioned, with its small latticed
panes, and thick garland of foliage, admitting but an imperfect light.

Over the chimneypiece (which was of the same massive materials with the
panelling of the apartment) was the only ornament of the room; a painting,
namely, representing an officer in the military dress of the Civil Wars.
It was a green jerkin, then the national and peculiar wear of the Manxmen;
his short band which hung down on the cuirass—the orange-coloured
scarf, but, above all, the shortness of his close-cut hair, showing
evidently to which of the great parties he had belonged. His right hand
rested on the hilt of his sword; and in the left he held a small Bible,
bearing the inscription, "In hoc signo." The countenance was of a
light complexion, with fair and almost effeminate blue eyes, and an oval
form of face—one of those physiognomies, to which, though not
otherwise unpleasing, we naturally attach the idea of melancholy and of
misfortune.[*] Apparently it was well known to Julian Peveril; for after
having looked at it for a long time, he could not forbear muttering aloud,
"What would I give that that man had never been born, or that he still
lived!"

[*] I am told that a portrait of the unfortunate William Christian is
still preserved in the family of Waterson of Ballnabow of Kirk
Church, Rushin. William Dhône is dressed in a green coat without
collar or cape, after the fashion of those puritanic times, with
the head in a close cropt wig, resembling the bishop's peruke of
the present day. The countenance is youthful and well-looking,
very unlike the expression of foreboding melancholy. I have so far
taken advantage of this criticism, as to bring my ideal portrait
in the present edition, nearer to the complexion at least of the
fair-haired William Dhône.

"How now—how is this?" said a female, who entered the room as he
uttered this reflection. "You here, Master Peveril, in spite of all
the warnings you have had! You here in the possession of folk's house when
they are abroad, and talking to yourself, as I shall warrant!"

"Yes, Mistress Deborah," said Peveril, "I am here once more, as you see,
against every prohibition, and in defiance of all danger.—Where is
Alice?"

"Where you will never see her, Master Julian—you may satisfy
yourself of that," answered Mistress Deborah, for it was that respectable
governante; and sinking down at the same time upon one of the large
leathern chairs, she began to fan herself with her handkerchief, and
complain of the heat in a most ladylike fashion.

In fact, Mistress Debbitch, while her exterior intimated a considerable
change of condition for the better, and her countenance showed the less
favourable effects of the twenty years which had passed over her head, was
in mind and manners very much what she had been when she battled the
opinions of Madam Ellesmere at Martindale Castle. In a word, she was
self-willed, obstinate, and coquettish as ever, otherwise no ill-disposed
person. Her present appearance was that of a woman of the better rank.
From the sobriety of the fashion of her dress, and the uniformity of its
colours, it was plain she belonged to some sect which condemned
superfluous gaiety in attire; but no rules, not those of a nunnery or of a
quaker's society, can prevent a little coquetry in that particular, where
a woman is desirous of being supposed to retain some claim to personal
attention. All Mistress Deborah's garments were so arranged as might best
set off a good-looking woman, whose countenance indicated ease and good
cheer—who called herself five-and-thirty, and was well entitled, if
she had a mind, to call herself twelve or fifteen years older.

Julian was under the necessity of enduring all her tiresome and fantastic
airs, and awaiting with patience till she had "prinked herself and pinned
herself"—flung her hoods back, and drawn them forward—snuffed
at a little bottle of essences—closed her eyes like a dying fowl—turned
them up like duck in a thunderstorm; when at length, having exhausted her
round of minauderies, she condescended to open the conversation.

"These walks will be the death of me," she said, "and all on your account,
Master Julian Peveril; for if Dame Christian should learn that you have
chosen to make your visits to her niece, I promise you Mistress Alice
would be soon obliged to find other quarters, and so should I."

"Come now, Mistress Deborah, be good-humoured," said Julian; "consider,
was not all this intimacy of ours of your own making? Did you not make
yourself known to me the very first time I strolled up this glen with my
fishing-rod, and tell me that you were my former keeper, and that Alice
had been my little playfellow? And what could there be more natural, than
that I should come back and see two such agreeable persons as often as I
could?"

"Yes," said Dame Deborah; "but I did not bid you fall in love with us,
though, or propose such a matter as marriage either to Alice or myself."

"To do you justice, you never did, Deborah," answered the youth; "but what
of that? Such things will come out before one is aware. I am sure you must
have heard such proposals fifty times when you least expected them."

"Fie, fie, fie, Master Julian Peveril," said the governante; "I would have
you to know that I have always so behaved myself, that the best of the
land would have thought twice of it, and have very well considered both
what he was going to say, and how he was going to say it, before he came
out with such proposals to me."

"True, true, Mistress Deborah," continued Julian; "but all the world hath
not your discretion. Then Alice Bridgenorth is a child—a mere child;
and one always asks a baby to be one's little wife, you know. Come, I know
you will forgive me. Thou wert ever the best-natured, kindest woman in the
world; and you know you have said twenty times we were made for each
other."

"Oh no, Master Julian Peveril; no, no, no!" ejaculated Deborah. "I may
indeed have said your estates were born to be united; and to be sure it is
natural for me, that come of the old stock of the yeomanry of Peveril of
the Peak's estate, to wish that it was all within the ring fence again;
which sure enough it might be, were you to marry Alice Bridgenorth. But
then there is the knight your father, and my lady your mother; and there
is her father, that is half crazy with his religion; and her aunt that
wears eternal black grogram for that unlucky Colonel Christian; and there
is the Countess of Derby, that would serve us all with the same sauce if
we were thinking of anything that would displease her. And besides all
that, you have broke your word with Mistress Alice, and everything is over
between you; and I am of opinion it is quite right it should be all over.
And perhaps it may be, Master Julian, that I should have thought so a long
time ago, before a child like Alice put it into my head; but I am so
good-natured."

No flatterer like a lover, who wishes to carry his point.

"You are the best-natured, kindest creature in the world, Deborah.—But
you have never seen the ring I bought for you at Paris. Nay, I will put it
on your finger myself;—what! your foster-son, whom you loved so
well, and took such care of?"

He easily succeeded in putting a pretty ring of gold, with a humorous
affectation of gallantry, on the fat finger of Mistress Deborah Debbitch.
Hers was a soul of a kind often to be met with, both among the lower and
higher vulgar, who, without being, on a broad scale, accessible to bribes
or corruption, are nevertheless much attached to perquisites, and
considerably biassed in their line of duty, though perhaps insensibly, by
the love of petty observances, petty presents, and trivial compliments.
Mistress Debbitch turned the ring round, and round, and round, and at
length said, in a whisper, "Well, Master Julian Peveril, it signifies
nothing denying anything to such a young gentleman as you, for young
gentlemen are always so obstinate! and so I may as well tell you, that
Mistress Alice walked back from the Kirk-Truagh along with me, just now,
and entered the house at the same time with myself."

"Why did you not tell me so before?" said Julian, starting up; "where—where
is she?"

"You had better ask why I tell you so now, Master Julian," said
Dame Deborah; "for, I promise you, it is against her express commands; and
I would not have told you, had you not looked so pitiful;—but as for
seeing you, that she will not—and she is in her own bedroom, with a
good oak door shut and bolted upon her—that is one comfort.—And
so, as for any breach of trust on my part—I promise you the little
saucy minx gives it no less name—it is quite impossible."

"Do not say so, Deborah—only go—only try—tell her to
hear me—tell her I have a hundred excuses for disobeying her
commands—tell her I have no doubt to get over all obstacles at
Martindale Castle."

"Nay, I tell you it is all in vain," replied the Dame. "When I saw your
cap and rod lying in the hall, I did but say, 'There he is again,' and she
ran up the stairs like a young deer; and I heard key turned, and bolt
shot, ere I could say a single word to stop her—I marvel you heard
her not."

"It was because I am, as I ever was, an owl—a dreaming fool, who let
all those golden minutes pass, which my luckless life holds out to me so
rarely.—Well—tell her I go—go for ever—go where
she will hear no more of me—where no one shall hear more of me!"

"Oh, the Father!" said the dame, "hear how he talks!—What will
become of Sir Geoffrey, and your mother, and of me, and of the Countess,
if you were to go so far as you talk of? And what would become of poor
Alice too? for I will be sworn she likes you better than she says, and I
know she used to sit and look the way that you used to come up the stream,
and now and then ask me if the morning were good for fishing. And all the
while you were on the continent, as they call it, she scarcely smiled
once, unless it was when she got two beautiful long letters about foreign
parts."

"Friendship, Dame Deborah—only friendship—cold and calm
remembrance of one who, by your kind permission, stole in on your solitude
now and then, with news from the living world without—Once, indeed,
I thought—but it is all over—farewell."

So saying, he covered his face with one hand, and extended the other, in
the act of bidding adieu to Dame Debbitch, whose kind heart became unable
to withstand the sight of his affliction.

"Now, do not be in such haste," she said; "I will go up again, and tell
her how it stands with you, and bring her down, if it is in woman's power
to do it."

And so saying, she left the apartment, and ran upstairs.

Julian Peveril, meanwhile, paced the apartment in great agitation, waiting
the success of Deborah's intercession; and she remained long enough absent
to give us time to explain, in a short retrospect, the circumstances which
had led to his present situation.

CHAPTER XII

Ah me! for aught that ever I could read,
Could ever hear by tale or history,
The course of true love never did run smooth!
—Midsummer Night's Dream.

The celebrated passage which we have prefixed to this chapter has, like
most observations of the same author, its foundation in real experience.
The period at which love is formed for the first time, and felt most
strongly, is seldom that at which there is much prospect of its being
brought to a happy issue. The state of artificial society opposes many
complicated obstructions to early marriages; and the chance is very great,
that such obstacles prove insurmountable. In fine, there are few men who
do not look back in secret to some period of their youth, at which a
sincere and early affection was repulsed, or betrayed, or become abortive
from opposing circumstances. It is these little passages of secret
history, which leave a tinge of romance in every bosom, scarce permitting
us, even in the most busy or the most advanced period of life, to listen
with total indifference to a tale of true love.

Julian Peveril had so fixed his affections, as to insure the fullest share
of that opposition which early attachments are so apt to encounter. Yet
nothing so natural as that he should have done so. In early youth, Dame
Debbitch had accidentally met with the son of her first patroness, and who
had himself been her earliest charge, fishing in the little brook already
noticed, which watered the valley in which she resided with Alice
Bridgenorth. The dame's curiosity easily discovered who he was; and
besides the interest which persons in her condition usually take in the
young people who have been under their charge, she was delighted with the
opportunity to talk about former times—about Martindale Castle, and
friends there—about Sir Geoffrey and his good lady—and, now
and then, about Lance Outram the park-keeper.

The mere pleasure of gratifying her inquiries, would scarce have had power
enough to induce Julian to repeat his visits to the lonely glen; but
Deborah had a companion—a lovely girl—bred in solitude, and in
the quiet and unpretending tastes which solitude encourages—spirited,
also, and inquisitive, and listening, with laughing cheek, and an eager
eye, to every tale which the young angler brought from the town and
castle.

The visits of Julian to the Black Fort were only occasional—so far
Dame Deborah showed common-sense—which was, perhaps, inspired by the
apprehension of losing her place, in case of discovery. She had, indeed,
great confidence in the strong and rooted belief—amounting almost to
superstition—which Major Bridgenorth entertained, that his
daughter's continued health could only be insured by her continuing under
the charge of one who had acquired Lady Peveril's supposed skill in
treating those subject to such ailments. This belief Dame Deborah had
improved to the utmost of her simple cunning,—always speaking in
something of an oracular tone, upon the subject of her charge's health,
and hinting at certain mysterious rules necessary to maintain it in the
present favourable state. She had availed herself of this artifice, to
procure for herself and Alice a separate establishment at the Black Fort;
for it was originally Major Bridgenorth's resolution, that his daughter
and her governante should remain under the same roof with the
sister-in-law of his deceased wife, the widow of the unfortunate Colonel
Christian. But this lady was broken down with premature age, brought on by
sorrow; and, in a short visit which Major Bridgenorth made to the island,
he was easily prevailed on to consider her house at Kirk-Truagh, as a very
cheerless residence for his daughter. Dame Deborah, who longed for
domestic independence, was careful to increase this impression by alarming
her patron's fears on account of Alice's health. The mansion of
Kirk-Truagh stood, she said, much exposed to the Scottish winds, which
could not but be cold, as they came from a country where, as she was
assured, there was ice and snow at midsummer. In short, she prevailed, and
was put into full possession of the Black Fort, a house which, as well as
Kirk-Truagh, belonged formerly to Christian, and now to his widow.

Still, however, it was enjoined on the governante and her charge, to visit
Kirk-Truagh from time to time, and to consider themselves as under the
management and guardianship of Mistress Christian—a state of
subjection, the sense of which Deborah endeavoured to lessen, by assuming
as much freedom of conduct as she possibly dared, under the influence,
doubtless, of the same feelings of independence, which induced her, at
Martindale Hall, to spurn the advice of Mistress Ellesmere.

It was this generous disposition to defy control which induced her to
procure for Alice, secretly, some means of education, which the stern
genius of puritanism would have proscribed. She ventured to have her
charge taught music—nay, even dancing; and the picture of the stern
Colonel Christian trembled on the wainscot where it was suspended, while
the sylph-like form of Alice, and the substantial person of Dame Deborah,
executed French chaussées and borrées, to the sound of a
small kit, which screamed under the bow of Monsieur De Pigal, half
smuggler, half dancing-master. This abomination reached the ears of the
Colonel's widow, and by her was communicated to Bridgenorth, whose sudden
appearance in the island showed the importance he attached to the
communication. Had she been faithless to her own cause, that had been the
latest hour of Mrs. Deborah's administration. But she retreated into her
stronghold.

"Dancing," she said, "was exercise, regulated and timed by music; and it
stood to reason, that it must be the best of all exercise for a delicate
person, especially as it could be taken within doors, and in all states of
the weather."

Bridgenorth listened, with a clouded and thoughtful brow, when, in
exemplification of her doctrine, Mistress Deborah, who was no contemptible
performer on the viol, began to jangle Sellenger's Round, and desired
Alice to dance an old English measure to the tune. As the half-bashful,
half-smiling girl, about fourteen—for such was her age—moved
gracefully to the music, the father's eye unavoidably followed the light
spring of her step, and marked with joy the rising colour in her cheek.
When the dance was over, he folded her in his arms, smoothed her somewhat
disordered locks with a father's affectionate hand, smiled, kissed her
brow, and took his leave, without one single word farther interdicting the
exercise of dancing. He did not himself communicate the result of his
visit at the Black Fort to Mrs. Christian, but she was not long of
learning it, by the triumph of Dame Deborah on her next visit.

"It is well," said the stern old lady; "my brother Bridgenorth hath
permitted you to make a Herodias of Alice, and teach her dancing. You have
only now to find her a partner for life—I shall neither meddle nor
make more in their affairs."

In fact, the triumph of Dame Deborah, or rather of Dame Nature, on this
occasion, had more important effects than the former had ventured to
anticipate; for Mrs. Christian, though she received with all formality the
formal visits of the governante and her charge, seemed thenceforth so
pettish with the issue of her remonstrance, upon the enormity of her niece
dancing to a little fiddle, that she appeared to give up interference in
her affairs, and left Dame Debbitch and Alice to manage both education and
housekeeping—in which she had hitherto greatly concerned herself—much
after their own pleasure.

It was in this independent state that they lived, when Julian first
visited their habitation; and he was the rather encouraged to do so by
Dame Deborah, that she believed him to be one of the last persons in the
world with whom Mistress Christian would have desired her niece to be
acquainted—the happy spirit of contradiction superseding, with Dame
Deborah, on this, as on other occasions, all consideration of the fitness
of things. She did not act altogether without precaution neither. She was
aware she had to guard not only against any reviving interest or curiosity
on the part of Mistress Christian, but against the sudden arrival of Major
Bridgenorth, who never failed once in the year to make his appearance at
the Black Fort when least expected, and to remain there for a few days.
Dame Debbitch, therefore, exacted of Julian, that his visits should be few
and far between; that he should condescend to pass for a relation of her
own, in the eyes of two ignorant Manx girls and a lad, who formed her
establishment; and that he should always appear in his angler's dress made
of the simple Loughtan, or buff-coloured wool of the island, which
is not subjected to dyeing. By these cautions, she thought his intimacy at
the Black Fort would be entirely unnoticed, or considered as immaterial,
while, in the meantime, it furnished much amusement to her charge and
herself.

This was accordingly the case during the earlier part of their
intercourse, while Julian was a lad, and Alice a girl two or three years
younger. But as the lad shot up to youth, and the girl to womanhood, even
Dame Deborah Debbitch's judgment saw danger in their continued intimacy.
She took an opportunity to communicate to Julian who Miss Bridgenorth
actually was, and the peculiar circumstances which placed discord between
their fathers. He heard the story of their quarrel with interest and
surprise, for he had only resided occasionally at Martindale Castle, and
the subject of Bridgenorth's quarrel with his father had never been
mentioned in his presence. His imagination caught fire at the sparks
afforded by this singular story; and, far from complying with the prudent
remonstrance of Dame Deborah, and gradually estranging himself from the
Black Fort and its fair inmate, he frankly declared, he considered his
intimacy there, so casually commenced, as intimating the will of Heaven,
that Alice and he were designed for each other, in spite of every obstacle
which passion or prejudice could raise up betwixt them. They had been
companions in infancy; and a little exertion of memory enabled him to
recall his childish grief for the unexpected and sudden disappearance of
his little companion, whom he was destined again to meet with in the early
bloom of opening beauty, in a country which was foreign to them both.

Dame Deborah was confounded at the consequences of her communication,
which had thus blown into a flame the passion which she hoped it would
have either prevented or extinguished. She had not the sort of head which
resists the masculine and energetic remonstrances of passionate
attachment, whether addressed to her on her own account, or on behalf of
another. She lamented, and wondered, and ended her feeble opposition, by
weeping, and sympathising, and consenting to allow the continuance of
Julian's visits, provided he should only address himself to Alice as a
friend; to gain the world, she would consent to nothing more. She was not,
however, so simple, but that she also had her forebodings of the designs
of Providence on this youthful couple; for certainly they could not be
more formed to be united than the good estates of Martindale and
Moultrassie.

Then came a long sequence of reflections. Martindale Castle wanted but
some repairs to be almost equal to Chatsworth. The Hall might be allowed
to go to ruin; or, what would be better, when Sir Geoffrey's time came
(for the good knight had seen service, and must be breaking now), the Hall
would be a good dowery-house, to which my lady and Ellesmere might
retreat; while (empress of the still-room, and queen of the pantry)
Mistress Deborah Debbitch should reign housekeeper at the Castle, and
extend, perhaps, the crown-matrimonial to Lance Outram, provided he was
not become too old, too fat, or too fond of ale.

Such were the soothing visions under the influence of which the dame
connived at an attachment, which lulled also to pleasing dreams, though of
a character so different, her charge and her visitant.

The visits of the young angler became more and more frequent; and the
embarrassed Deborah, though foreseeing all the dangers of discovery, and
the additional risk of an explanation betwixt Alice and Julian, which must
necessarily render their relative situation so much more delicate, felt
completely overborne by the enthusiasm of the young lover, and was
compelled to let matters take their course.

The departure of Julian for the continent interrupted the course of his
intimacy at the Black Fort, and while it relieved the elder of its inmates
from much internal apprehension, spread an air of languor and dejection
over the countenance of the younger, which, at Bridgenorth's next visit to
the Isle of Man, renewed all his terrors for his daughter's constitutional
malady.

Deborah promised faithfully she should look better the next morning, and
she kept her word. She had retained in her possession for some time a
letter which Julian had, by some private conveyance, sent to her charge,
for his youthful friend. Deborah had dreaded the consequences of
delivering it as a billet-doux, but, as in the case of the dance, she
thought there could be no harm in administering it as a remedy.

It had complete effect; and next day the cheeks of the maiden had a tinge
of the rose, which so much delighted her father, that, as he mounted his
horse, he flung his purse into Deborah's hand, with the desire she should
spare nothing that could make herself and his daughter happy, and the
assurance that she had his full confidence.

This expression of liberality and confidence from a man of Major
Bridgenorth's reserved and cautious disposition, gave full plumage to
Mistress Deborah's hopes; and emboldened her not only to deliver another
letter of Julian's to the young lady, but to encourage more boldly and
freely than formerly the intercourse of the lovers when Peveril returned
from abroad.

At length, in spite of all Julian's precaution, the young Earl became
suspicious of his frequent solitary fishing parties; and he himself, now
better acquainted with the world than formerly, became aware that his
repeated visits and solitary walks with a person so young and beautiful as
Alice, might not only betray prematurely the secret of his attachment, but
be of essential prejudice to her who was its object.

Under the influence of this conviction, he abstained, for an unusual
period, from visiting the Black Fort. But when he next indulged himself
with spending an hour in the place where he would gladly have abode for
ever, the altered manner of Alice—the tone in which she seemed to
upbraid his neglect, penetrated his heart, and deprived him of that power
of self-command, which he had hitherto exercised in their interviews. It
required but a few energetic words to explain to Alice at once his
feelings, and to make her sensible of the real nature of her own. She wept
plentifully, but her tears were not all of bitterness. She sat passively
still, and without reply, while he explained to her, with many an
interjection, the circumstances which had placed discord between their
families; for hitherto, all that she had known was, that Master Peveril,
belonging to the household of the great Countess or Lady of Man, must
observe some precautions in visiting a relative of the unhappy Colonel
Christian. But, when Julian concluded his tale with the warmest
protestations of eternal love, "My poor father!" she burst forth, "and was
this to be the end of all thy precautions?—This, that the son of him
that disgraced and banished thee, should hold such language to your
daughter?"

"You err, Alice, you err," cried Julian eagerly. "That I hold this
language—that the son of Peveril addresses thus the daughter of your
father—that he thus kneels to you for forgiveness of injuries which
passed when we were both infants, shows the will of Heaven, that in our
affection should be quenched the discord of our parents. What else could
lead those who parted infants on the hills of Derbyshire, to meet thus in
the valleys of Man?"

Alice, however new such a scene, and, above all, her own emotions, might
be, was highly endowed with that exquisite delicacy which is imprinted in
the female heart, to give warning of the slightest approach to impropriety
in a situation like hers.

"Rise, rise, Master Peveril," she said; "do not do yourself and me this
injustice—we have done both wrong—very wrong; but my fault was
done in ignorance. O God! my poor father, who needs comfort so much—is
it for me to add to his misfortunes? Rise!" she added more firmly; "if you
retain this unbecoming posture any longer, I will leave the room and you
shall never see me more."

The commanding tone of Alice overawed the impetuosity of her lover, who
took in silence a seat removed to some distance from hers, and was again
about to speak. "Julian," said she in a milder tone, "you have spoken
enough, and more than enough. Would you had left me in the pleasing dream
in which I could have listened to you for ever! but the hour of wakening
is arrived." Peveril waited the prosecution of her speech as a criminal
while he waits his doom; for he was sufficiently sensible that an answer,
delivered not certainly without emotion, but with firmness and resolution,
was not to be interrupted. "We have done wrong," she repeated, "very
wrong; and if we now separate for ever, the pain we may feel will be but a
just penalty for our error. We should never have met: meeting, we should
part as soon as possible. Our farther intercourse can but double our pain
at parting. Farewell, Julian; and forget we ever have seen each other!"

"Forget!" said Julian; "never, never. To you, it is easy to speak
the word—to think the thought. To me, an approach to either
can only be by utter destruction. Why should you doubt that the feud of
our fathers, like so many of which we have heard, might be appeased by our
friendship? You are my only friend. I am the only one whom Heaven has
assigned to you. Why should we separate for the fault of others, which
befell when we were but children?"

"You speak in vain, Julian," said Alice; "I pity you—perhaps I pity
myself—indeed, I should pity myself, perhaps, the most of the two;
for you will go forth to new scenes and new faces, and will soon forget
me; but, I, remaining in this solitude, how shall I forget?—that,
however, is not now the question—I can bear my lot, and it commands
us to part."

"Hear me yet a moment," said Peveril; "this evil is not, cannot be
remediless. I will go to my father,—I will use the intercession of
my mother, to whom he can refuse nothing—I will gain their consent—they
have no other child—and they must consent, or lose him for ever.
Say, Alice, if I come to you with my parents' consent to my suit, will you
again say, with that tone so touching and so sad, yet so incredibly
determined—Julian, we must part?" Alice was silent. "Cruel girl,
will you not even deign to answer me?" said her lover.

"I would refer you to my father," said Alice, blushing and casting her
eyes down; but instantly raising them again, she repeated, in a firmer and
a sadder tone, "Yes, Julian, I would refer you to my father; and you would
find that your pilot, Hope, had deceived you; and that you had but escaped
the quicksands to fall upon the rocks."

"I would that could be tried!" said Julian. "Methinks I could persuade
your father that in ordinary eyes our alliance is not undesirable. My
family have fortune, rank, long descent—all that fathers look for
when they bestow a daughter's hand."

"All this would avail you nothing," said Alice. "The spirit of my father
is bent upon the things of another world; and if he listened to hear you
out, it would be but to tell you that he spurned your offers."

"You know not—you know not, Alice," said Julian. "Fire can soften
iron—thy father's heart cannot be so hard, or his prejudices so
strong, but I shall find some means to melt him. Forbid me not—Oh,
forbid me not at least the experiment!"

"I can but advise," said Alice; "I can forbid you nothing; for, to forbid,
implies power to command obedience. But if you will be wise, and listen to
me—Here, and on this spot, we part for ever!"

"Not so, by Heaven!" said Julian, whose bold and sanguine temper scarce
saw difficulty in attaining aught which he desired. "We now part, indeed,
but it is that I may return armed with my parents' consent. They desire
that I should marry—in their last letters they pressed it more
openly—they shall have their desire; and such a bride as I will
present to them has not graced their house since the Conqueror gave it
origin. Farewell, Alice! Farewell, for a brief space!"

She replied, "Farewell, Julian! Farewell for ever!"

Julian, within a week of this interview, was at Martindale Castle, with
the view of communicating his purpose. But the task which seems easy at a
distance, proves as difficult, upon a nearer approach, as the fording of a
river, which from afar appeared only a brook. There lacked not
opportunities of entering upon the subject; for in the first ride which he
took with his father, the Knight resumed the subject of his son's
marriage, and liberally left the lady to his choice; but under the strict
proviso, that she was of a loyal and an honourable family;—if she
had fortune, it was good and well, or rather, it was better than well; but
if she was poor, why, "there is still some picking," said Sir Geoffrey,
"on the bones of the old estate; and Dame Margaret and I will be content
with the less, that you young folks may have your share of it. I am turned
frugal already, Julian. You see what a north-country shambling bit of a
Galloway nag I ride upon—a different beast, I wot, from my own old
Black Hastings, who had but one fault, and that was his wish to turn down
Moultrassie avenue."

"Was that so great a fault?" said Julian, affecting indifference, while
his heart was trembling, as it seemed to him, almost in his very throat.

"It used to remind me of that base, dishonourable Presbyterian fellow,
Bridgenorth," said Sir Geoffrey; "and I would as lief think of a toad:—they
say he has turned Independent, to accomplish the full degree of rascality.—I
tell you, Gill, I turned off the cow-boy, for gathering nuts in his woods—I
would hang a dog that would so much as kill a hare there.—But what
is the matter with you? You look pale."

Julian made some indifferent answer, but too well understood, from the
language and tone which his father used, that his prejudices against
Alice's father were both deep and envenomed, as those of country gentlemen
often become, who, having little to do or think of, are but too apt to
spend their time in nursing and cherishing petty causes of wrath against
their next neighbours.

In the course of the same day, he mentioned the Bridgenorth to his mother,
as if in a casual manner. But the Lady Peveril instantly conjured him
never to mention the name, especially in his father's presence.

"Was that Major Bridgenorth, of whom I have heard the name mentioned,"
said Julian, "so very bad a neighbour?"

"I do not say so," said Lady Peveril; "nay, we were more than once obliged
to him, in the former unhappy times; but your father and he took some
passages so ill at each other's hands, that the least allusion to him
disturbs Sir Geoffrey's temper, in a manner quite unusual, and which, now
that his health is somewhat impaired, is sometimes alarming to me. For
Heaven's sake, then, my dear Julian, avoid upon all occasions the
slightest allusion to Moultrassie, or any of its inhabitants."

This warning was so seriously given, that Julian himself saw that
mentioning his secret purpose would be the sure way to render it abortive,
and therefore he returned disconsolate to the Isle.

Peveril had the boldness, however, to make the best he could of what had
happened, by requesting an interview with Alice, in order to inform her
what had passed betwixt his parents and him on her account. It was with
great difficulty that this boon was obtained; and Alice Bridgenorth showed
no slight degree of displeasure, when she discovered, after much
circumlocution, and many efforts to give an air of importance to what he
had to communicate, that all amounted but to this, that Lady Peveril
continued to retain a favourable opinion of her father, Major Bridgenorth,
which Julian would fain have represented as an omen of their future more
perfect reconciliation.

"I did not think you would thus have trifled with me, Master Peveril,"
said Alice, assuming an air of dignity; "but I will take care to avoid
such intrusion in future—I request you will not again visit the
Black Fort; and I entreat of you, good Mistress Debbitch, that you will no
longer either encourage or permit this gentleman's visits, as the result
of such persecution will be to compel me to appeal to my aunt and father
for another place of residence, and perhaps also for another and more
prudent companion."

This last hint struck Mistress Deborah with so much terror, that she
joined her ward in requiring and demanding Julian's instant absence, and
he was obliged to comply with their request. But the courage of a youthful
lover is not easily subdued; and Julian, after having gone through the
usual round of trying to forget his ungrateful mistress, and entertaining
his passion with augmented violence, ended by the visit to the Black Fort,
the beginning of which we narrated in the last chapter.

We then left him anxious for, yet almost fearful of, an interview with
Alice, which he prevailed upon Deborah to solicit; and such was the tumult
of his mind, that, while he traversed the parlour, it seemed to him that
the dark melancholy eyes of the slaughtered Christian's portrait followed
him wherever he went, with the fixed, chill, and ominous glance, which
announced to the enemy of his race mishap and misfortune.

The door of the apartment opened at length, and these visions were
dissipated.

CHAPTER XIII

Parents have flinty hearts! No tears can move them.
—OTWAY.

When Alice Bridgenorth at length entered the parlour where her anxious
lover had so long expected her, it was with a slow step, and a composed
manner. Her dress was arranged with an accurate attention to form, which
at once enhanced the appearance of its puritanic simplicity, and struck
Julian as a bad omen; for although the time bestowed upon the toilet may,
in many cases, intimate the wish to appear advantageously at such an
interview, yet a ceremonious arrangement of attire is very much allied
with formality, and a preconceived determination to treat a lover with
cold politeness.

The sad-coloured gown—the pinched and plaited cap, which carefully
obscured the profusion of long dark-brown hair—the small ruff, and
the long sleeves, would have appeared to great disadvantage on a shape
less graceful than Alice Bridgenorth's; but an exquisite form, though not,
as yet, sufficiently rounded in the outlines to produce the perfection of
female beauty, was able to sustain and give grace even to this unbecoming
dress. Her countenance, fair and delicate, with eyes of hazel, and a brow
of alabaster, had, notwithstanding, less regular beauty than her form, and
might have been justly subjected to criticism. There was, however, a life
and spirit in her gaiety, and a depth of sentiment in her gravity, which
made Alice, in conversation with the very few persons with whom she
associated, so fascinating in her manners and expression, whether of
language or countenance—so touching, also, in her simplicity and
purity of thought, that brighter beauties might have been overlooked in
her company. It was no wonder, therefore, that an ardent character like
Julian, influenced by these charms, as well as by the secrecy and mystery
attending his intercourse with Alice, should prefer the recluse of the
Black Fort to all others with whom he had become acquainted in general
society.

His heart beat high as she came into the apartment, and it was almost
without an attempt to speak that his profound obeisance acknowledged her
entrance.

"This is a mockery, Master Peveril," said Alice, with an effort to speak
firmly, which yet was disconcerted by a slightly tremulous inflection of
voice—"a mockery, and a cruel one. You come to this lone place,
inhabited only by two women, too simple to command your absence—too
weak to enforce it—you come, in spite of my earnest request—to
the neglect of your own time—to the prejudice, I may fear, of my
character—you abuse the influence you possess over the simple person
to whom I am entrusted—All this you do, and think to make up by low
reverences and constrained courtesy! Is this honourable, or is it fair?—Is
it," she added, after a moment's hesitation—"is it kind?"

The tremulous accent fell especially on the last word she uttered, and it
was spoken in a low tone of gentle reproach, which went to Julian's heart.

"If," said he, "there was a mode by which, at the peril of my life, Alice,
I could show my regard—my respect—my devoted tenderness—the
danger would be dearer to me than ever was pleasure."

"You have said such things often," said Alice, "and they are such as I
ought not to hear, and do not desire to hear. I have no tasks to impose on
you—no enemies to be destroyed—no need or desire of protection—no
wish, Heaven knows, to expose you to danger—It is your visits here
alone to which danger attaches. You have but to rule your own wilful
temper—to turn your thoughts and your cares elsewhere, and I can
have nothing to ask—nothing to wish for. Use your own reason—consider
the injury you do yourself—the injustice you do us—and let me,
once more, in fair terms, entreat you to absent yourself from this place—till—till——"

She paused, and Julian eagerly interrupted her.—"Till when, Alice?—till
when?—impose on me any length of absence which your severity can
inflict, short of a final separation—Say, Begone for years, but
return when these years are over; and, slow and wearily as they must pass
away, still the thought that they must at length have their period, will
enable me to live through them. Let me, then, conjure thee, Alice, to name
a date—to fix a term—to say till when!"

"Till you can bear to think of me only as a friend and sister."

"That is a sentence of eternal banishment indeed!" said Julian; "it is
seeming, no doubt, to fix a term of exile, but attaching to it an
impossible condition."

"And why impossible, Julian?" said Alice, in a tone of persuasion; "were
we not happier ere you threw the mask from your own countenance, and tore
the veil from my foolish eyes? Did we not meet with joy, spend our time
happily, and part cheerily, because we transgressed no duty, and incurred
no self-reproach? Bring back that state of happy ignorance, and you shall
have no reason to call me unkind. But while you form schemes which I know
to be visionary, and use language of such violence and passion, you shall
excuse me if I now, and once for all, declare, that since Deborah shows
herself unfit for the trust reposed in her, and must needs expose me to
persecutions of this nature, I will write to my father, that he may fix me
another place of residence; and in the meanwhile I will take shelter with
my aunt at Kirk-Truagh."

"Hear me, unpitying girl," said Peveril, "hear me, and you shall see how
devoted I am to obedience, in all that I can do to oblige you! You say you
were happy when we spoke not on such topics—well—at all
expense of my own suppressed feelings, that happy period shall return. I
will meet you—walk with you—read with you—but only as a
brother would with his sister, or a friend with his friend; the thoughts I
may nourish, be they of hope or of despair, my tongue shall not give birth
to, and therefore I cannot offend; Deborah shall be ever by your side, and
her presence shall prevent my even hinting at what might displease you—only
do not make a crime to me of those thoughts which are the dearest part of
my existence; for believe me it were better and kinder to rob me of
existence itself."

"This is the mere ecstasy of passion, Julian," answered Alice Bridgenorth;
"that which is unpleasant, our selfish and stubborn will represents as
impossible. I have no confidence in the plan you propose—no
confidence in your resolution, and less than none in the protection of
Deborah. Till you can renounce, honestly and explicitly, the wishes you
have lately expressed, we must be strangers;—and could you renounce
them even at this moment, it were better that we should part for a long
time; and, for Heaven's sake, let it be as soon as possible—perhaps
it is even now too late to prevent some unpleasant accident—I
thought I heard a noise."

"It was Deborah," answered Julian. "Be not afraid, Alice; we are secure
against surprise."

"I know not," said Alice, "what you mean by such security—I have
nothing to hide. I sought not this interview; on the contrary, averted it
as long as I could—and am now most desirous to break it off."

"And wherefore, Alice, since you say it must be our last? Why should you
shake the sand which is passing so fast? the very executioner hurries not
the prayers of the wretches upon the scaffold.—And see you not—I
will argue as coldly as you can desire—see you not that you are
breaking your own word, and recalling the hope which yourself held out to
me?"

"What hope have I suggested? What word have I given, Julian?" answered
Alice. "You yourself build wild hopes in the air, and accuse me of
destroying what had never any earthly foundation. Spare yourself, Julian—spare
me—and in mercy to us both depart, and return not again till you can
be more reasonable."

"Reasonable?" replied Julian; "it is you, Alice, who will deprive me
altogether of reason. Did you not say, that if our parents could be
brought to consent to our union, you would no longer oppose my suit?"

"No—no—no," said Alice eagerly, and blushing deeply,—"I
did not say so, Julian—it was your own wild imagination which put
construction on my silence and my confusion."

"You do not say so, then?" answered Julian; "and if all other
obstacles were removed, I should find one in the cold flinty bosom of her
who repays the most devoted and sincere affection with contempt and
dislike?—Is that," he added, in a deep tone of feeling—"is
that what Alice Bridgenorth says to Julian Peveril?"

"Indeed—indeed, Julian," said the almost weeping girl, "I do not say
so—I say nothing, and I ought not to say anything concerning what I
might do, in a state of things which can never take place. Indeed, Julian,
you ought not thus to press me. Unprotected as I am—wishing you well—very
well—why should you urge me to say or do what would lessen me in my
own eyes? to own affection for one from whom fate has separated me for
ever? It is ungenerous—it is cruel—it is seeking a momentary
and selfish gratification to yourself, at the expense of every feeling
which I ought to entertain."

"You have said enough, Alice," said Julian, with sparkling eyes; "you have
said enough in deprecating my urgency, and I will press you no farther.
But you overrate the impediments which lie betwixt us—they must and
shall give way."

"So you said before," answered Alice, "and with what probability, your own
account may show. You dared not to mention the subject to your own father—how
should you venture to mention it to mine?"

"That I will soon enable you to decide upon. Major Bridgenorth, by my
mother's account, is a worthy and an estimable man. I will remind him,
that to my mother's care he owes the dearest treasure and comfort of his
life; and I will ask him if it is a just retribution to make that mother
childless. Let me but know where to find him, Alice, and you shall soon
hear if I have feared to plead my cause with him."

"Alas!" answered Alice, "you well know my uncertainty as to my dear
father's residence. How often has it been my earnest request to him that
he would let me share his solitary abode, or his obscure wanderings! But
the short and infrequent visits which he makes to this house are all that
he permits me of his society. Something I might surely do, however little,
to alleviate the melancholy by which he is oppressed."

"Something we might both do," said Peveril. "How willingly would I aid you
in so pleasing a task! All old griefs should be forgotten—all old
friendships revived. My father's prejudices are those of an Englishman—strong,
indeed, but not insurmountable by reason. Tell me, then, where Major
Bridgenorth is, and leave the rest to me; or let me but know by what
address your letters reach him, and I will forthwith essay to discover his
dwelling."

"Do not attempt it, I charge you," said Alice. "He is already a man of
sorrows; and what would he think were I capable of entertaining a suit so
likely to add to them? Besides, I could not tell you, if I would, where he
is now to be found. My letters reach him from time to time, by means of my
aunt Christian; but of his address I am entirely ignorant."

"Then, by Heaven," answered Julian, "I will watch his arrival in this
island, and in this house; and ere he has locked thee in his arms, he
shall answer to me on the subject of my suit."

"Then demand that answer now," said a voice from without the door, which
was at the same time slowly opened—"Demand that answer now, for here
stands Ralph Bridgenorth."

As he spoke, he entered the apartment with his usual slow and sedate step—raised
his flapp'd and steeple-crowned hat from his brows, and, standing in the
midst of the room, eyed alternately his daughter and Julian Peveril with a
fixed and penetrating glance.

"Father!" said Alice, utterly astonished, and terrified besides, by his
sudden appearance at such a conjuncture,—"Father, I am not to
blame."

"Of that anon, Alice," said Bridgenorth; "meantime retire to your
apartment—I have that to say to this youth which will not endure
your presence."

"Indeed—indeed, father," said Alice, alarmed at what she supposed
these words indicated, "Julian is as little to be blamed as I! It was
chance, it was fortune, which caused our meeting together." Then suddenly
rushing forward, she threw her arms around her father, saying, "Oh, do him
no injury—he meant no wrong! Father, you were wont to be a man of
reason and religious peace."

"And wherefore should I not be so now, Alice?" said Bridgenorth, raising
his daughter from the ground, on which she had almost sunk in the
earnestness of her supplication. "Dost thou know aught, maiden, which
should inflame my anger against this young man, more than reason or
religion may bridle? Go—go to thy chamber. Compose thine own
passions—learn to rule these—and leave it to me to deal with
this stubborn young man."

Alice arose, and, with her eyes fixed on the ground, retired slowly from
the apartment. Julian followed her steps with his eyes till the last wave
of her garment was visible at the closing door; then turned his looks to
Major Bridgenorth, and then sunk them on the ground. The Major continued
to regard him in profound silence; his looks were melancholy and even
austere; but there was nothing which indicated either agitation or keen
resentment. He motioned to Julian to take a seat, and assumed one himself.
After which he opened the conversation in the following manner:—

"You seemed but now, young gentleman, anxious to learn where I was to be
found. Such I at least conjectured, from the few expressions which I
chanced to overhear; for I made bold, though it may be contrary to the
code of modern courtesy, to listen a moment or two, in order to gather
upon what subject so young a man as you entertained so young a woman as
Alice, in a private interview."

"I trust, sir," said Julian, rallying spirits in what he felt to be a case
of extremity, "you have heard nothing on my part which has given offence
to a gentleman, whom, though unknown, I am bound to respect so highly."

"On the contrary," said Bridgenorth, with the same formal gravity, "I am
pleased to find that your business is, or appears to be, with me, rather
than with my daughter. I only think you had done better to have entrusted
it to me in the first instance, as my sole concern."

The utmost sharpness of attention which Julian applied, could not discover
if Bridgenorth spoke seriously or ironically to the above purpose. He was,
however, quick-witted beyond his experience, and was internally determined
to endeavour to discover something of the character and the temper of him
with whom he spoke. For that purpose, regulating his reply in the same
tone with Bridgenorth's observation, he said, that not having the
advantage to know his place of residence, he had applied for information
to his daughter.

"Who is now known to you for the first time?" said Bridgenorth. "Am I so
to understand you?"

"By no means," answered Julian, looking down; "I have been known to your
daughter for many years; and what I wished to say, respects both her
happiness and my own."

"I must understand you," said Bridgenorth, "even as carnal men understand
each other on the matters of this world. You are attached to my daughter
by the cords of love; I have long known this."

"You, Master Bridgenorth?" exclaimed Peveril—"You have long
known it?"

"Yes, young man. Think you, that as the father of an only child, I could
have suffered Alice Bridgenorth—the only living pledge of her who is
now an angel in heaven—to have remained in this seclusion without
the surest knowledge of all her material actions? I have, in person, seen
more, both of her and of you, than you could be aware of; and when absent
in the body, I had the means of maintaining the same superintendence.
Young man, they say that such love as you entertain for my daughter
teaches much subtilty; but believe not that it can overreach the affection
which a widowed father bears to an only child."

"If," said Julian, his heart beating thick and joyfully, "if you have
known this intercourse so long, may I not hope that it has not met your
disapprobation?"

The Major paused for an instant, and then answered, "In some respects,
certainly not. Had it done so—had there seemed aught on your side,
or on my daughter's, to have rendered your visits here dangerous to her,
or displeasing to me, she had not been long the inhabitant of this
solitude, or of this island. But be not so hasty as to presume, that all
which you may desire in this matter can be either easily or speedily
accomplished."

"I foresee, indeed, difficulties," answered Julian; "but with your kind
acquiescence, they are such as I trust to remove. My father is generous—my
mother is candid and liberal. They loved you once; I trust they will love
you again. I will be the mediator betwixt you—peace and harmony
shall once more inhabit our neighbourhood, and——"

Bridgenorth interrupted him with a grim smile; for such it seemed, as it
passed over a face of deep melancholy. "My daughter well said, but short
while past, that you were a dreamer of dreams—an architect of plans
and hopes fantastic as the visions of the night. It is a great thing you
ask of me;—the hand of my only child—the sum of my worldly
substance, though that is but dross in comparison. You ask the key of the
only fountain from which I may yet hope to drink one pleasant draught; you
ask to be the sole and absolute keeper of my earthly happiness—and
what have you offered, or what have you to offer in return, for the
surrender you require of me?"

"I am but too sensible," said Peveril, abashed at his own hasty
conclusions, "how difficult it may be."

"Nay, but interrupt me not," replied Bridgenorth, "till I show you the
amount of what you offer me in exchange for a boon, which, whatever may be
its intrinsic value, is earnestly desired by you, and comprehends all that
is valuable on earth which I have it in my power to bestow. You may have
heard that in the late times I was the antagonist of your father's
principles and his profane faction, but not the enemy of his person."

"I have ever heard," replied Julian, "much the contrary; and it was but
now that I reminded you that you had been his friend."

"Ay. When he was in affliction and I in prosperity, I was neither
unwilling, nor altogether unable, to show myself such. Well, the tables
are turned—the times are changed. A peaceful and unoffending man
might have expected from a neighbour, now powerful in his turn, such
protection, when walking in the paths of the law, as all men, subjects of
the same realm, have a right to expect even from perfect strangers. What
chances? I pursue, with the warrant of the King and law, a murderess,
bearing on her hand the blood of my near connection, and I had, in such a
case, a right to call on every liege subject to render assistance to the
execution. My late friendly neighbour, bound, as a man and a magistrate,
to give ready assistance to a legal action—bound, as a grateful and
obliged friend, to respect my rights and my person—thrusts himself
betwixt me—me, the avenger of blood—and my lawful captive;
beats me to the earth, at once endangering my life, and, in mere human
eyes, sullying mine honour; and under his protection, the Midianitish
woman reaches, like a sea-eagle, the nest which she hath made in the
wave-surrounded rocks, and remains there till gold, duly administered at
Court, wipes out all memory of her crime, and baffles the vengeance due to
the memory of the best and bravest of men.—But," he added,
apostrophising the portrait of Christian, "thou art not yet forgotten, my
fair-haired William! The vengeance which dogs thy murderess is slow,—but
it is sure!"

There was a pause of some moments, which Julian Peveril, willing to hear
to what conclusion Major Bridgenorth was finally to arrive, did not care
to interrupt. Accordingly, in a few minutes, the latter proceeded.—"These
things," he said, "I recall not in bitterness, so far as they are personal
to me—I recall them not in spite of heart, though they have been the
means of banishing me from my place of residence, where my fathers dwelt,
and where my earthly comforts lie interred. But the public cause sets
further strife betwixt your father and me. Who so active as he to execute
the fatal edict of black St. Bartholomew's day, when so many hundreds of
gospel-preachers were expelled from house and home—from hearth and
altar—from church and parish, to make room for belly-gods and
thieves? Who, when a devoted few of the Lord's people were united to lift
the fallen standard, and once more advance the good cause, was the
readiest to break their purpose—to search for, persecute, and
apprehend them? Whose breath did I feel warm on my neck—whose naked
sword was thrust within a foot of my body, whilst I lurked darkling, like
a thief in concealment, in the house of my fathers?—It was Geoffrey
Peveril's—it was your father's!—What can you answer to all
this, or how can you reconcile it with your present wishes?

"These things I point out to you, Julian, that I may show you how
impossible, in the eyes of a merely worldly man, would be the union which
you are desirous of. But Heaven hath at times opened a door, where man
beholds no means of issue. Julian, your mother, for one to whom the truth
is unknown, is, after the fashion of the world, one of the best, and one
of the wisest of women; and Providence, which gave her so fair a form, and
tenanted that form with a mind as pure as the original frailty of our vile
nature will permit, means not, I trust, that she shall continue to the end
to be a vessel of wrath and perdition. Of your father I say nothing—he
is what the times and example of others, and the counsels of his lordly
priest, have made him; and of him, once more, I say nothing, save that I
have power over him, which ere now he might have felt, but that there is
one within his chambers, who might have suffered in his suffering. Nor do
I wish to root up your ancient family. If I prize not your boast of family
honours and pedigree, I would not willingly destroy them; more than I
would pull down a moss-grown tower, or hew to the ground an ancient oak,
save for the straightening of the common path, and advantage of the
public. I have, therefore, no resentment against the humbled House of
Peveril—nay, I have regard to it in its depression."

He here made a second pause, as if he expected Julian to say something.
But notwithstanding the ardour with which the young man had pressed his
suit, he was too much trained in ideas of the importance of his family,
and in the better habit of respect for his parents, to hear, without
displeasure, some part of Bridgenorth's discourse.

"The House of Peveril," he replied, "was never humbled."

"Had you said the sons of that House had never been humble,"
answered Bridgenorth, "you would have come nearer the truth.—Are you
not humbled? Live you not here, the lackey of a haughty woman, the
play-companion of an empty youth? If you leave this Isle, and go to the
Court of England, see what regard will there be paid to the old pedigree
that deduces your descent from kings and conquerors. A scurril or obscene
jest, an impudent carriage, a laced cloak, a handful of gold, and the
readiness to wager it on a card, or a die, will better advance you at the
Court of Charles, than your father's ancient name, and slavish devotion of
blood and fortune to the cause of his father."

"That is, indeed, but too probable," said Peveril; "but the Court shall be
no element of mine. I will live like my fathers, among my people, care for
their comforts, decide their differences——"

"Build Maypoles, and dance around them," said Bridgenorth, with another of
those grim smiles which passed over his features like the light of a
sexton's torch, as it glares and is reflected by the window of the church,
when he comes from locking a funeral vault. "No, Julian, these are not
times in which, by the dreaming drudgery of a country magistrate, and the
petty cares of a country proprietor, a man can serve his unhappy country.
There are mighty designs afloat, and men are called to make their choice
betwixt God and Baal. The ancient superstition—the abomination of
our fathers—is raising its head, and flinging abroad its snares,
under the protection of the princes of the earth; but she raises not her
head unmarked or unwatched; the true English hearts are as thousands,
which wait but a signal to arise as one man, and show the kings of the
earth that they have combined in vain! We will cast their cords from us—the
cup of their abominations we will not taste."

"You speak in darkness, Master Bridgenorth," said Peveril. "Knowing so
much of me, you may, perhaps, also be aware, that I at least have seen too
much of the delusions of Rome, to desire that they should be propagated at
home."

"Else, wherefore do I speak to thee friendly and so free?" said
Bridgenorth. "Do I not know, with what readiness of early wit you baffled
the wily attempts of the woman's priest, to seduce thee from the
Protestant faith? Do I not know, how thou wast beset when abroad, and that
thou didst both hold thine own faith, and secure the wavering belief of
thy friend? Said I not, this was done like the son of Margaret Peveril?
Said I not, he holdeth, as yet, but the dead letter—but the seed
which is sown shall one day sprout and quicken?—Enough, however, of
this. For to-day this is thy habitation. I will see in thee neither the
servant of the daughter of Eshbaal, nor the son of him who pursued my
life, and blemished my honours; but thou shalt be to me, for this day, as
the child of her, without whom my house had been extinct."

So saying, he stretched out his thin, bony hand, and grasped that of
Julian Peveril; but there was such a look of mourning in his welcome, that
whatever delight the youth anticipated, spending so long a time in the
neighbourhood of Alice Bridgenorth, perhaps in her society, or however
strongly he felt the prudence of conciliating her father's good-will, he
could not help feeling as if his heart was chilled in his company.

CHAPTER XIV

This day at least is friendship's—on the morrow
Let strife come an she will.
—OTWAY.

Deborah Debbitch, summoned by her master, now made her appearance, with
her handkerchief at her eyes, and an appearance of great mental trouble.
"It was not my fault, Major Bridgenorth," she said; "how could I help it?
like will to like—the boy would come—the girl would see him."

"Peace, foolish woman," said Bridgenorth, "and hear what I have got to
say."

"I know what your honour has to say well enough," said Deborah. "Service,
I wot, is no inheritance nowadays—some are wiser than other some—if
I had not been wheedled away from Martindale, I might have had a house of
mine own by this time."

"Peace, idiot!" said Bridgenorth; but so intent was Deborah on her
vindication, that he could but thrust the interjection, as it were
edgewise, between her exclamations, which followed as thick as is usual in
cases, where folks endeavour to avert deserved censure by a clamorous
justification ere the charge be brought.

"No wonder she was cheated," she said, "out of sight of her own interest,
when it was to wait on pretty Miss Alice. All your honour's gold should
never have tempted me, but that I knew she was but a dead castaway, poor
innocent, if she were taken away from my lady or me.—And so this is
the end on't!—up early, and down late—and this is all my
thanks!—But your honour had better take care what you do—she
has the short cough yet sometimes—and should take physic, spring and
fall."

"Peace, chattering fool!" said her master, so soon as her failing breath
gave him an opportunity to strike in, "thinkest thou I knew not of this
young gentleman's visits to the Black Fort, and that, if they had
displeased me, I would not have known how to stop them?"

"Did I know that your honour knew of his visits!" exclaimed Deborah, in a
triumphant tone,—for, like most of her condition, she never sought
farther for her defence than a lie, however inconsistent and improbable—"Did
I know that your honour knew of it!—Why, how should I have permitted
his visits else? I wonder what your honour takes me for! Had I not been
sure it was the thing in this world that your honour most desired would I
have presumed to lend it a hand forward? I trust I know my duty better.
Hear if I ever asked another youngster into the house, save himself—for
I knew your honour was wise, and quarrels cannot last for ever, and love
begins where hatred ends; and, to be sure, they love as if they were born
one for the other—and then, the estates of Moultrassie and
Martindale suit each other like sheath and knife."

"Parrot of a woman, hold your tongue!" said Bridgenorth, his patience
almost completely exhausted; "or, if you will prate, let it be to your
playfellows in the kitchen, and bid them get ready some dinner presently,
for Master Peveril is far from home."

"That I will, and with all my heart," said Deborah; "and if there are a
pair of fatter fowls in Man than shall clap their wings on the table
presently, your honour shall call me goose as well as parrot." She then
left the apartment.

"It is to such a woman as that," said Bridgenorth, looking after her
significantly, "that you conceived me to have abandoned the charge of my
only child! But enough of this subject—we will walk abroad, if you
will, while she is engaged in a province fitter for her understanding."

So saying, he left the house, accompanied by Julian Peveril, and they were
soon walking side by side, as if they had been old acquaintances.

It may have happened to many of our readers, as it has done to ourselves,
to be thrown by accident into society with some individual whose claims to
what is called a serious character stand considerably higher than
our own, and with whom, therefore, we have conceived ourselves likely to
spend our time in a very stiff and constrained manner; while, on the other
hand, our destined companion may have apprehended some disgust from the
supposed levity and thoughtless gaiety of a disposition that when we, with
that urbanity and good-humour which is our principal characteristic, have
accommodated ourself to our companion, by throwing as much seriousness
into our conversation as our habits will admit, he, on the other hand,
moved by our liberal example, hath divested his manners of part of their
austerity; and our conversation has, in consequence, been of that pleasant
texture, betwixt the useful and agreeable, which best resembles "the
fairy-web of night and day," usually called in prose the twilight. It is
probable both parties may, on such occasions, have been the better for
their encounter, even if it went no farther than to establish for the time
a community of feeling between men, who, separated more perhaps by temper
than by principle, are too apt to charge each other with profane frivolity
on the one hand, or fanaticism on the other.

It fared thus in Peveril's walk with Bridgenorth, and in the conversation
which he held with him.

Carefully avoiding the subject on which he had already spoken, Major
Bridgenorth turned his conversation chiefly on foreign travel, and on the
wonders he had seen in distant countries, and which he appeared to have
marked with a curious and observant eye. This discourse made the time fly
light away; for although the anecdotes and observations thus communicated
were all tinged with the serious and almost gloomy spirit of the narrator,
they yet contained traits of interest and of wonder, such as are usually
interesting to a youthful ear, and were particularly so to Julian, who
had, in his disposition, some cast of the romantic and adventurous.

It appeared that Bridgenorth knew the south of France, and could tell many
stories of the French Huguenots, who already began to sustain those
vexations which a few years afterwards were summed up by the revocation of
the Edict of Nantz. He had even been in Hungary, for he spoke as from
personal knowledge of the character of several of the heads of the great
Protestant insurrection, which at this time had taken place under the
celebrated Tekeli; and laid down solid reasons why they were entitled to
make common cause with the Great Turk, rather than submit to the Pope of
Rome. He talked also of Savoy, where those of the reformed religion still
suffered a cruel persecution; and he mentioned with a swelling spirit, the
protection which Oliver had afforded to the oppressed Protestant Churches;
"therein showing himself," he added, "more fit to wield the supreme power,
than those who, claiming it by right of inheritance, use it only for their
own vain and voluptuous pursuits."

"I did not expect," said Peveril modestly, "to have heard Oliver's
panegyric from you, Master Bridgenorth."

"I do not panegyrise him," answered Bridgenorth; "I speak but truth of
that extraordinary man, now being dead, whom, when alive, I feared not to
withstand to his face. It is the fault of the present unhappy King, if he
make us look back with regret to the days when the nation was respected
abroad, and when devotion and sobriety were practised at home.—But I
mean not to vex your spirit by controversy. You have lived amongst those
who find it more easy and more pleasant to be the pensioners of France
than her controllers—to spend the money which she doles out to
themselves, than to check the tyranny with which she oppresses our poor
brethren of the religion. When the scales shall fall from thine eyes, all
this thou shalt see; and seeing, shalt learn to detest and despise it."

By this time they had completed their walk, and were returned to the Black
Fort, by a different path from that which had led them up the valley. The
exercise and the general tone of conversation had removed, in some degree,
the shyness and embarrassment which Peveril originally felt in
Bridgenorth's presence and which the tenor of his first remarks had rather
increased than diminished. Deborah's promised banquet was soon on the
board; and in simplicity as well as neatness and good order, answered the
character she had claimed for it. In one respect alone, there seemed some
inconsistency, perhaps a little affectation. Most of the dishes were of
silver, and the plates were of the same metal; instead of the trenchers
and pewter which Peveril had usually seen employed on similar occasions at
the Black Fort.

Presently, with the feeling of one who walks in a pleasant dream from
which he fears to awake, and whose delight is mingled with wonder and with
uncertainty, Julian Peveril found himself seated between Alice Bridgenorth
and her father—the being he most loved on earth, and the person whom
he had ever considered as the great obstacle to their intercourse. The
confusion of his mind was such, that he could scarcely reply to the
importunate civilities of Dame Deborah; who, seated with them at table in
her quality of governante, now dispensed the good things which had been
prepared under her own eye.

As for Alice she seemed to have found a resolution to play the mute; for
she answered not, excepting briefly, to the questions of Dame Debbitch;
nay, even when her father, which happened once or twice, attempted to
bring her forward in the conversation, she made no further reply than
respect for him rendered absolutely necessary.

Upon Bridgenorth himself, then, devolved the task of entertaining the
company; and contrary to his ordinary habits, he did not seem to shrink
from it. His discourse was not only easy, but almost cheerful, though ever
and anon crossed by some expressions indicative of natural and habitual
melancholy, or prophetic of future misfortune and woe. Flashes of
enthusiasm, too, shot along his conversation, gleaming like the
sheet-lightening of an autumn eve, which throws a strong, though momentary
illumination, across the sober twilight, and all the surrounding objects,
which, touched by it, assume a wilder and more striking character. In
general, however, Bridgenorth's remarks were plain and sensible; and as he
aimed at no graces of language, any ornament which they received arose out
of the interest with which they were impressed on his hearers. For
example, when Deborah, in the pride and vulgarity of her heart, called
Julian's attention to the plate from which they had been eating,
Bridgenorth seemed to think an apology necessary for such superfluous
expense.

"It was a symptom," he said, "of approaching danger, when such men, as
were not usually influenced by the vanities of life employed much money in
ornaments composed of the precious metals. It was a sign that the merchant
could not obtain a profit for the capital, which, for the sake of
security, he invested in this inert form. It was a proof that the noblemen
or gentlemen feared the rapacity of power, when they put their wealth into
forms the most portable and the most capable of being hidden; and it
showed the uncertainty of credit, when a man of judgment preferred the
actual possession of a mass of a silver to the convenience of a
goldsmith's or a banker's receipt. While a shadow of liberty remained," he
said, "domestic rights were last invaded; and, therefore, men disposed
upon their cupboards and tables the wealth which in these places would
remain longest, though not perhaps finally, sacred from the grasp of a
tyrannical government. But let there be a demand for capital to support a
profitable commerce, and the mass is at once consigned to the furnace,
and, ceasing to be a vain and cumbrous ornament of the banquet, becomes a
potent and active agent for furthering the prosperity of the country."

"In war, too," said Peveril, "plate has been found a ready resource."

"But too much so," answered Bridgenorth. "In the late times, the plate of
the nobles and gentry, with that of the colleges, and the sale of the
crown-jewels, enabled the King to make his unhappy stand, which prevented
matters returning to a state of peace and good order, until the sword had
attained an undue superiority both over King and Parliament."

He looked at Julian as he spoke, much as he who proves a horse offers some
object suddenly to his eyes, then watches to see if he starts or blenches
from it. But Julian's thoughts were too much bent on other topics to
manifest any alarm. His answer referred to a previous part of
Bridgenorth's discourse, and was not returned till after a brief pause.
"War, then," he said, "war, the grand impoverisher, is also a creator of
wealth which it wastes and devours?"

"Yes," replied Bridgenorth, "even as the sluice brings into action the
sleeping waters of the lake, which it finally drains. Necessity invents
arts and discovers means; and what necessity is sterner than that of civil
war? Therefore, even war is not in itself unmixed evil, being the creator
of impulses and energies which could not otherwise have existed in
society."

"Men should go to war, then," said Peveril, "that they may send their
silver plate to the mint, and eat from pewter dishes and wooden plates?"

"Not so, my son," said Bridgenorth. Then checking himself as he observed
the deep crimson in Julian's cheek and brow, he added, "I crave your
pardon for such familiarity; but I meant not to limit what I said even now
to such trifling consequences, although it may be something salutary to
tear men from their pomps and luxuries, and teach those to be Romans who
would otherwise be Sybarites. But I would say, that times of public
danger, as they call into circulation the miser's hoard and the proud
man's bullion, and so add to the circulating wealth of the country, do
also call into action many a brave and noble spirit, which would otherwise
lie torpid, give no example to the living, and bequeath no name to future
ages. Society knows not, and cannot know, the mental treasures which
slumber in her bosom, till necessity and opportunity call forth the
statesman and the soldier from the shades of lowly life to the parts they
are designed by Providence to perform, and the stations which nature had
qualified them to hold. So rose Oliver—so rose Milton—so rose
many another name which cannot be forgotten—even as the tempest
summons forth and displays the address of the mariner."

"You speak," said Peveril, "as if national calamity might be, in some
sort, an advantage."

"And if it were not so," replied Bridgenorth, "it had not existed in this
state of trial, where all temporal evil is alleviated by something good in
its progress or result, and where all that is good is close coupled with
that which is in itself evil."

"It must be a noble sight," said Julian, "to behold the slumbering
energies of a great mind awakened into energy, and to see it assume the
authority which is its due over spirits more meanly endowed."

"I once witnessed," said Bridgenorth, "something to the same effect; and
as the tale is brief, I will tell it you, if you will:—Amongst my
wanderings, the Transatlantic settlements have not escaped me; more
especially the country of New England, into which our native land has
shaken from her lap, as a drunkard flings from him his treasures, so much
that is precious in the eyes of God and of His children. There thousands
of our best and most godly men—such whose righteousness might come
of cities—are content to be the inhabitants of the desert, rather
encountering the unenlightened savages, than stooping to extinguish, under
the oppression practised in Britain, the light that is within their own
minds. There I remained for a time, during the wars which the colony
maintained with Philip, a great Indian Chief, or Sachem, as they were
called, who seemed a messenger sent from Satan to buffet them. His cruelty
was great—his dissimulation profound; and the skill and promptitude
with which he maintained a destructive and desultory warfare, inflicted
many dreadful calamities on the settlement. I was, by chance, at a small
village in the woods, more than thirty miles from Boston, and in its
situation exceedingly lonely, and surrounded with thickets. Nevertheless,
there was no idea of any danger from the Indians at that time, for men
trusted to the protection of a considerable body of troops who had taken
the field for protection of the frontiers, and who lay, or were supposed
to lie, betwixt the hamlet and the enemy's country. But they had to do
with a foe, whom the devil himself had inspired at once with cunning and
cruelty. It was on a Sabbath morning, when we had assembled to take sweet
counsel together in the Lord's house. Our temple was but constructed of
wooden logs; but when shall the chant of trained hirelings, or the
sounding of tin and brass tubes amid the aisles of a minster, arise so
sweetly to Heaven, as did the psalm in which we united at once our voices
and our hearts! An excellent worthy, who now sleeps in the Lord, Nehemia
Solsgrace, long the companion of my pilgrimage, had just begun to wrestle
in prayer, when a woman, with disordered looks and dishevelled hair,
entered our chapel in a distracted manner, screaming incessantly, 'The
Indians! The Indians!'—In that land no man dares separate himself
from his means of defence; and whether in the city or in the field, in the
ploughed land or the forest, men keep beside them their weapons, as did
the Jews at the rebuilding of the Temple. So we sallied forth with our
guns and pikes, and heard the whoop of these incarnate devils, already in
possession of a part of the town, and exercising their cruelty on the few
whom weighty causes or indisposition had withheld from public worship; and
it was remarked as a judgment, that, upon that bloody Sabbath, Adrian
Hanson, a Dutchman, a man well enough disposed towards man, but whose mind
was altogether given to worldly gain, was shot and scalped as he was
summing his weekly gains in his warehouse. In fine, there was much damage
done; and although our arrival and entrance into combat did in some sort
put them back, yet being surprised and confused, and having no appointed
leader of our band, the devilish enemy shot hard at us and had some
advantage. It was pitiful to hear the screams of women and children amid
the report of guns and the whistling of bullets, mixed with the ferocious
yells of these savages, which they term their war-whoop. Several houses in
the upper part of the village were soon on fire; and the roaring of the
flames, and crackling of the great beams as they blazed, added to the
horrible confusion; while the smoke which the wind drove against us gave
farther advantage to the enemy, who fought as it were, invisible, and
under cover, whilst we fell fast by their unerring fire. In this state of
confusion, and while we were about to adopt the desperate project of
evacuating the village, and, placing the women and children in the centre,
of attempting a retreat to the nearest settlement, it pleased Heaven to
send us unexpected assistance. A tall man, of a reverend appearance, whom
no one of us had ever seen before, suddenly was in the midst of us, as we
hastily agitated the resolution of retreating. His garments were of the
skin of the elk, and he wore sword and carried gun; I never saw anything
more august than his features, overshadowed by locks of grey hair, which
mingled with a long beard of the same colour. 'Men and brethren,' he said,
in a voice like that which turns back the flight, 'why sink your hearts?
and why are you thus disquieted? Fear ye that the God we serve will give
you up to yonder heathen dogs? Follow me, and you shall see this day that
there is a captain in Israel!' He uttered a few brief but distinct orders,
in a tone of one who was accustomed to command; and such was the influence
of his appearance, his mien, his language, and his presence of mind, that
he was implicitly obeyed by men who had never seen him until that moment.
We were hastily divided, by his orders, into two bodies; one of which
maintained the defence of the village with more courage than ever,
convinced that the Unknown was sent by God to our rescue. At his command
they assumed the best and most sheltered positions for exchanging their
deadly fire with the Indians; while, under cover of the smoke, the
stranger sallied from the town, at the head of the other division of the
New England men, and, fetching a circuit, attacked the Red Warriors in the
rear. The surprise, as is usual amongst savages, had complete effect; for
they doubted not that they were assailed in their turn, and placed betwixt
two hostile parties by the return of a detachment from the provincial
army. The heathens fled in confusion, abandoning the half-won village, and
leaving behind them such a number of their warriors, that the tribe hath
never recovered its loss. Never shall I forget the figure of our venerable
leader, when our men, and not they only, but the women and children of the
village, rescued from the tomahawk and scalping-knife, stood crowded
around him, yet scarce venturing to approach his person, and more minded,
perhaps, to worship him as a descended angel, than to thank him as a
fellow-mortal. 'Not unto me be the glory,' he said; 'I am but an
implement, frail as yourselves, in the hand of Him who is strong to
deliver. Bring me a cup of water, that I may allay my parched throat, ere
I essay the task of offering thanks where they are most due.' I was
nearest to him as he spoke, and I gave into his hand the water he
requested. At that moment we exchanged glances, and it seemed to me that I
recognised a noble friend whom I had long since deemed in glory; but he
gave me no time to speak, had speech been prudent. Sinking on his knees,
and signing us to obey him, he poured forth a strong and energetic
thanksgiving for the turning back of the battle, which, pronounced with a
voice loud and clear as a war-trumpet, thrilled through the joints and
marrow of the hearers. I have heard many an act of devotion in my life,
had Heaven vouchsafed me grace to profit by them; but such a prayer as
this, uttered amid the dead and the dying, with a rich tone of mingled
triumph and adoration, was beyond them all—it was like the song of
the inspired prophetess who dwelt beneath the palm-tree between Ramah and
Bethel. He was silent; and for a brief space we remained with our faces
bent to the earth—no man daring to lift his head. At length we
looked up, but our deliverer was no longer amongst us; nor was he ever
again seen in the land which he had rescued."

Here Bridgenorth, who had told this singular story with an eloquence and
vivacity of detail very contrary to the usual dryness of his conversation,
paused for an instant, and then resumed—"Thou seest, young man, that
men of valour and of discretion are called forth to command in
circumstances of national exigence, though their very existence is unknown
in the land which they are predestined to deliver."

"But what thought the people of the mysterious stranger?" said Julian, who
had listened with eagerness, for the story was of a kind interesting to
the youthful and the brave.

"Many things," answered Bridgenorth, "and, as usual, little to the
purpose. The prevailing opinion was, notwithstanding his own disclamation,
that the stranger was really a supernatural being; others believed him an
inspired champion, transported in the body from some distant climate, to
show us the way to safety; others, again, concluded that he was a recluse,
who, either from motives of piety, or other cogent reasons, had become a
dweller in the wilderness, and shunned the face of man."

"And, if I may presume to ask," said Julian, "to which of these opinions
were you disposed to adhere?"

"The last suited best with the transient though close view with which I
had perused the stranger's features," replied Bridgenorth; "for although I
dispute not that it may please Heaven, on high occasions, even to raise
one from the dead in defence of his country, yet I doubted not then, as I
doubt not now, that I looked on the living form of one, who had indeed
powerful reasons to conceal him in the cleft of the rock."

"Are these reasons a secret?" said Julian Peveril.

"Not properly a secret," replied Bridgenorth; "for I fear not thy
betraying what I might tell thee in private discourse; and besides, wert
thou so base, the prey lies too distant for any hunters to whom thou
couldst point out its traces. But the name of this worthy will sound harsh
in thy ear, on account of one action of his life—being his accession
to a great measure, which made the extreme isles of the earth to tremble.
Have you never heard of Richard Whalley?"

"Of the regicide?" exclaimed Peveril, starting.

"Call his act what thou wilt," said Bridgenorth; "he was not less the
rescuer of that devoted village, that, with other leading spirits of the
age, he sat in the judgment-seat when Charles Stewart was arraigned at the
bar, and subscribed the sentence that went forth upon him."

"I have ever heard," said Julian, in an altered voice, and colouring
deeply, "that you, Master Bridgenorth, with other Presbyterians, were
totally averse to that detestable crime, and were ready to have made
joint-cause with the Cavaliers in preventing so horrible a parricide."

"If it were so," said Bridgenorth, "we have been richly rewarded by his
successor."

"Rewarded!" exclaimed Julian; "does the distinction of good and evil, and
our obligation to do the one and forbear the other, depend on the reward
which may attach to our actions?"

"God forbid," answered Bridgenorth; "yet those who view the havoc which
this house of Stewart have made in the Church and State—the tyranny
which they exercise over men's persons and consciences—may well
doubt whether it be lawful to use weapons in their defence. Yet you hear
me not praise, or even vindicate the death of the King, though so far
deserved, as he was false to his oath as a Prince and Magistrate. I only
tell you what you desired to know, that Richard Whalley, one of the late
King's judges, was he of whom I have just been speaking. I knew his lofty
brow, though time had made it balder and higher; his grey eye retained all
its lustre; and though the grizzled beard covered the lower part of his
face, it prevented me not from recognising him. The scent was hot after
him for his blood; but by the assistance of those friends whom Heaven had
raised up for his preservation, he was concealed carefully, and emerged
only to do the will of Providence in the matter of that battle. Perhaps
his voice may be heard in the field once more, should England need one of
her noblest hearts."

"Now, God forbid!" said Julian.

"Amen," returned Bridgenorth. "May God avert civil war, and pardon those
whose madness would bring it on us!"

There was a long pause, during which Julian, who had scarce lifted his
eyes towards Alice, stole a glance in that direction, and was struck by
the deep cast of melancholy which had stolen over features, to which a
cheerful, if not gay expression, was most natural. So soon as she caught
his eye, she remarked, and, as Julian thought, with significance, that the
shadows were lengthening, and evening coming on.

He heard; and although satisfied that she hinted at his departure, he
could not, upon the instant, find resolution to break the spell which
detained him. The language which Bridgenorth held was not only new and
alarming, but so contrary to the maxims in which he was brought up, that,
as a son of Sir Geoffrey Peveril of the Peak, he would, in another case,
have thought himself called upon to dispute its conclusions, even at the
sword's point. But Bridgenorth's opinions were delivered with so much
calmness—seemed so much the result of conviction—that they
excited in Julian rather a spirit of wonder, than of angry controversy.
There was a character of sober decision, and sedate melancholy, in all
that he said, which, even had he not been the father of Alice (and perhaps
Julian was not himself aware how much he was influenced by that
circumstance), would have rendered it difficult to take personal offence.
His language and sentiments were of that quiet, yet decided kind, upon
which it is difficult either to fix controversy, or quarrel, although it
be impossible to acquiesce in the conclusions to which they lead.

While Julian remained, as if spell-bound to his chair, scarce more
surprised at the company in which he found himself, than at the opinions
to which he was listening, another circumstance reminded him that the
proper time of his stay at Black Fort had been expended. Little Fairy, the
Manx pony, which, well accustomed to the vicinity of Black Fort, used to
feed near the house while her master made his visits there, began to find
his present stay rather too long. She had been the gift of the Countess to
Julian, whilst a youth, and came of a high-spirited mountain breed,
remarkable alike for hardiness, for longevity, and for a degree of
sagacity approaching to that of the dog. Fairy showed the latter quality,
by the way in which she chose to express her impatience to be moving
homewards. At least such seemed the purpose of the shrill neigh with which
she startled the female inmates of the parlour, who, the moment
afterwards, could not forbear smiling to see the nose of the pony advanced
through the opened casement.

"Fairy reminds me," said Julian, looking to Alice, and rising, "that the
term of my stay here is exhausted."

"Speak with me yet one moment," said Bridgenorth, withdrawing him into a
Gothic recess of the old-fashioned apartment, and speaking so low that he
could not be overheard by Alice and her governante, who, in the meantime,
caressed, and fed with fragments of bread the intruder Fairy.

"You have not, after all," said Bridgenorth, "told me the cause of your
coming hither." He stopped, as if to enjoy his embarrassment, and then
added, "And indeed it were most unnecessary that you should do so. I have
not so far forgotten the days of my youth, or those affections which bind
poor frail humanity but too much to the things of this world. Will you
find no words to ask of me the great boon which you seek, and which,
peradventure, you would not have hesitated to have made your own, without
my knowledge, and against my consent?—Nay, never vindicate thyself,
but mark me farther. The patriarch bought his beloved by fourteen years'
hard service to her father Laban, and they seemed to him but as a few
days. But he that would wed my daughter must serve, in comparison, but a
few days; though in matters of such mighty import, that they shall seem as
the service of many years. Reply not to me now, but go, and peace be with
you."

He retired so quickly, after speaking, that Peveril had literally not an
instant to reply. He cast his eyes around the apartment, but Deborah and
her charge had also disappeared. His gaze rested for a moment on the
portrait of Christian, and his imagination suggested that his dark
features were illuminated by a smile of haughty triumph. He stared, and
looked more attentively—it was but the effect of the evening beam,
which touched the picture at the instant. The effect was gone, and there
remained but the fixed, grave, inflexible features of the republican
soldier.

Julian left the apartment as one who walks in a dream; he mounted Fairy,
and, agitated by a variety of thoughts, which he was unable to reduce to
order, he returned to Castle Rushin before the night sat down.

Here he found all in movement. The Countess, with her son, had, upon some
news received, or resolution formed, during his absence, removed, with a
principal part of their family, to the yet stronger Castle of Holm-Peel,
about eight miles' distance across the island; and which had been suffered
to fall into a much more dilapidated condition than that of Castletown, so
far as it could be considered as a place of residence. But as a fortress,
Holm-Peel was stronger than Castletown; nay, unless assailed regularly,
was almost impregnable; and was always held by a garrison belonging to the
Lords of Man. Here Peveril arrived at nightfall. He was told in the
fishing-village, that the night-bell of the Castle had been rung earlier
than usual, and the watch set with circumstances of unusual and jealous
repetition.

Resolving, therefore, not to disturb the garrison by entering at that late
hour, he obtained an indifferent lodging in the town for the night, and
determined to go to the Castle early on the succeeding morning. He was not
sorry thus to gain a few hours of solitude, to think over the agitating
events of the preceding day.

CHAPTER XV

——What seem'd its head,
The likeness of a kingly crown had on.
—PARADISE LOST.

Sodor, or Holm-Peel, so is named the castle to which our Julian directed
his course early on the following morning, is one of those extraordinary
monuments of antiquity with which this singular and interesting island
abounds. It occupies the whole of a high rocky peninsula, or rather an
island, for it is surrounded by the sea at high-water, and scarcely
accessible even when the tide is out, although a stone causeway, of great
solidity, erected for the express purpose, connects the island with the
mainland. The whole space is surrounded by double walls of great strength
and thickness; and the access to the interior, at the time which we treat
of, was only by two flights of steep and narrow steps, divided from each
other by a strong tower and guard-house; under the former of which, there
is an entrance-arch. The open space within the walls extends to two acres,
and contains many objects worthy of antiquarian curiosity. There were
besides the castle itself, two cathedral churches, dedicated, the earlier
to St. Patrick, the latter to St. Germain; besides two smaller churches;
all of which had become, even in that day, more or less ruinous. Their
decayed walls, exhibiting the rude and massive architecture of the most
remote period, were composed of a ragged grey-stone, which formed a
singular contrast with the bright red freestone of which the window-cases,
corner-stones, arches, and other ornamental parts of the building, were
composed.

Besides these four ruinous churches, the space of ground enclosed by the
massive exterior walls of Holm-Peel exhibited many other vestiges of the
olden time. There was a square mound of earth, facing, with its angles to
the points of the compass, one of those motes, as they were called, on
which, in ancient times, the northern tribes elected or recognised their
chiefs, and held their solemn popular assemblies, or comitia. There
was also one of those singular towers, so common in Ireland as to have
proved the favourite theme of her antiquaries; but of which the real use
and meaning seems yet to be hidden in the mist of ages. This of Holm-Peel
had been converted to the purpose of a watch-tower. There were, besides,
Runic monuments, of which legends could not be deciphered; and later
inscriptions to the memory of champions, of whom the names only were
preserved from oblivion. But tradition and superstitious eld, still most
busy where real history is silent, had filled up the long blank of
accurate information with tales of Sea-kings and Pirates, Hebridean Chiefs
and Norwegian Resolutes, who had formerly warred against, and in defence
of, this famous castle. Superstition, too, had her tales of fairies,
ghosts, and spectres—her legions of saints and demons, of fairies
and of familiar spirits, which in no corner of the British empire are told
and received with more absolute credulity than in the Isle of Man.

Amidst all these ruins of an older time arose the Castle itself,—now
ruinous—but in Charles II.'s reign well garrisoned, and, in a
military point of view, kept in complete order. It was a venerable and
very ancient building, containing several apartments of sufficient size
and height to be termed noble. But in the surrender of the island by
Christian, the furniture had been, in a great measure, plundered or
destroyed by the republican soldiers; so that, as we have before hinted,
its present state was ill adapted for the residence of the noble
proprietor. Yet it had been often the abode, not only of the Lords of Man,
but of those state prisoners whom the Kings of Britain sometimes committed
to their charge.

In this Castle of Holm-Peel the great king-maker, Richard, Earl of
Warwick, was confined, during one period of his eventful life, to ruminate
at leisure on his farther schemes of ambition. And here, too, Eleanor, the
haughty wife of the good Duke of Gloucester, pined out in seclusion the
last days of her banishment. The sentinels pretended that her discontented
spectre was often visible at night, traversing the battlements of the
external walls, or standing motionless beside a particular solitary turret
of one of the watch-towers with which they are flanked; but dissolving
into air at cock-crow, or when the bell tolled from the yet remaining
tower of St. Germain's church.

Such was Holm-Peel, as records inform us, till towards the end of the
seventeenth century.

It was in one of the lofty but almost unfurnished apartments of this
ancient Castle that Julian Peveril found his friend the Earl of Derby, who
had that moment sat down to a breakfast composed of various sorts of fish.
"Welcome, most imperial Julian," he said; "welcome to our royal fortress;
in which, as yet, we are not like to be starved with hunger, though
well-nigh dead for cold."

Julian answered by inquiring the meaning of this sudden movement.

"Upon my word," replied the Earl, "you know nearly as much of it as I do.
My mother has told me nothing about it; supposing I believe, that I shall
at length be tempted to inquire; but she will find herself much mistaken.
I shall give her credit for full wisdom in her proceedings, rather than
put her to the trouble to render a reason, though no woman can render one
better."

"Come, come; this is affectation, my good friend," said Julian. "You
should inquire into these matters a little more curiously."

"To what purpose?" said the Earl. "To hear old stories about the Tinwald
laws, and the contending rights of the lords and the clergy, and all the
rest of that Celtic barbarism, which, like Burgesse's thorough-paced
doctrine enters at one ear, paces through, and goes out at the other?"

"Come, my lord," said Julian, "you are not so indifferent as you would
represent yourself—you are dying of curiosity to know what this
hurry is about; only you think it the courtly humour to appear careless
about your own affairs."

"Why, what should it be about," said the young Earl "unless some factious
dispute between our Majesty's minister, Governor Nowel, and our vassals?
or perhaps some dispute betwixt our Majesty and the ecclesiastical
jurisdictions? for all which our Majesty cares as little as any king in
Christendom."

"I rather suppose there is intelligence from England," said Julian. "I
heard last night in Peel-town, that Greenhalgh is come over with
unpleasant news."

"He brought me nothing that was pleasant, I wot well," said the Earl. "I
expected something from St. Evremond or Hamilton—some new plays by
Dryden or Lee, and some waggery or lampoons from the Rose Coffee-house;
and the fellow has brought me nothing but a parcel of tracts about
Protestants and Papists, and a folio play-book, one of the conceptions, as
she calls them, of that old mad-woman the Duchess of Newcastle."

"Hush, my lord, for Heaven's sake," said Peveril; "here comes the
Countess; and you know she takes fire at the least slight to her ancient
friend."

"Let her read her ancient friend's works herself, then," said the Earl,
"and think her as wise as she can; but I would not give one of Waller's
songs, or Denham's satires, for a whole cart-load of her Grace's trash.—But
here comes our mother with care on her brow."

The Countess of Derby entered the apartment accordingly, holding in her
hand a number of papers. Her dress was a mourning habit, with a deep train
of black velvet, which was borne by a little favourite attendant, a deaf
and dumb girl, whom, in compassion to her misfortune, the Countess had
educated about her person for some years. Upon this unfortunate being,
with the touch of romance which marked many of her proceedings, Lady Derby
had conferred the name of Fenella, after some ancient princess of the
island. The Countess herself was not much changed since we last presented
her to our readers. Age had rendered her step more slow, but not less
majestic; and while it traced some wrinkles on her brow, had failed to
quench the sedate fire of her dark eye. The young men rose to receive her
with the formal reverence which they knew she loved, and were greeted by
her with equal kindness.

"Cousin Peveril," she said (for so she always called Julian, in respect of
his mother being a kinswoman of her husband), "you were ill abroad last
night, when we much needed your counsel."

Julian answered with a blush which he could not prevent, "That he had
followed his sport among the mountains too far—had returned late—and
finding her ladyship was removed from Castletown, had instantly followed
the family hither; but as the night-bell was rung, and the watch set, he
had deemed it more respectful to lodge for the night in the town."

"It is well," said the Countess; "and, to do you justice, Julian, you are
seldom a truant neglecter of appointed hours, though, like the rest of the
youth of this age, you sometimes suffer your sports to consume too much of
time that should be spent otherwise. But for your friend Philip, he is an
avowed contemner of good order, and seems to find pleasure in wasting
time, even when he does not enjoy it."

"I have been enjoying my time just now at least," said the Earl, rising
from table, and picking his teeth carelessly. "These fresh mullets are
delicious, and so is the Lachrymæ Christi. I pray you to sit down to
breakfast, Julian, and partake the goods my royal foresight has provided.
Never was King of Man nearer being left to the mercy of the execrable
brandy of his dominions. Old Griffiths would never, in the midst of our
speedy retreat of last night, have had sense enough to secure a few
flasks, had I not given him a hint on that important subject. But presence
of mind amid danger and tumult, is a jewel I have always possessed."

"I wish, then, Philip, you would exert it to better purpose," said the
Countess, half smiling, half displeased; for she doated upon her son with
all a mother's fondness, even when she was most angry with him for being
deficient in the peculiar and chivalrous disposition which had
distinguished his father, and which was so analogous to her own romantic
and high-minded character. "Lend me your signet," she added with a sigh;
"for it were, I fear, vain to ask you to read over these despatches from
England, and execute the warrants which I have thought necessary to
prepare in consequence."

"My signet you shall command with all my heart, madam," said Earl Philip;
"but spare me the revision of what you are much more capable to decide
upon. I am, you know, a most complete Roi fainéant, and never once
interfered with my Maire de palais in her proceedings."

The Countess made signs to her little train-bearer, who immediately went
to seek for wax and a light, with which she presently returned.

In the meanwhile the Countess continued, addressing Peveril. "Philip does
himself less than justice. When you were absent, Julian (for if you had
been here I would have given you the credit of prompting your friend), he
had a spirited controversy with the Bishop, for an attempt to enforce
spiritual censures against a poor wretch, by confining her in the vault
under the chapel."[*]

[*] Beneath the only one of the four churches in Castle Rushin, which
is or was kept a little in repair, is a prison or dungeon, for
ecclesiastical offenders. "This," says Waldron, "is certainly one
of the most dreadful places that imagination can form; the sea
runs under it through the hollows of the rock with such a
continual roar, that you would think it were every moment breaking
in upon you, and over it are the vaults for burying the dead. The
stairs descending to this place of terrors are not above thirty,
but so steep and narrow, that they are very difficult to go down,
a child of eight or nine years not being able to pass them but
sideways."—WALDRON'S Description of the Isle of Man, in his
Works, p. 105, folio.

"Do not think better of me than I deserve," said the Earl to Peveril; "my
mother has omitted to tell you the culprit was pretty Peggy of Ramsey, and
her crime what in Cupid's courts would have been called a peccadillo."

"Do not make yourself worse than you are," replied Peveril, who observed
the Countess's cheek redden,—"you know you would have done as much
for the oldest and poorest cripple in the island. Why, the vault is under
the burial-ground of the chapel, and, for aught I know, under the ocean
itself, such a roaring do the waves make in its vicinity. I think no one
could remain there long, and retain his reason."

"It is an infernal hole," answered the Earl, "and I will have it built up
one day—that is full certain.—But hold—hold—for
God's sake, madam—what are you going to do?—Look at the seal
before you put it to the warrant—you will see it is a choice antique
cameo Cupid, riding on a flying fish—I had it for twenty zechins,
from Signor Furabosco at Rome—a most curious matter for an
antiquary, but which will add little faith to a Manx warrant.

"My signet—my signet—Oh! you mean that with the three
monstrous legs, which I supposed was devised as the most preposterous
device, to represent our most absurd Majesty of Man.—The signet—I
have not seen it since I gave it to Gibbon, my monkey, to play with.—He
did whine for it most piteously—I hope he has not gemmed the green
breast of ocean with my symbol of sovereignty!"

"Now, by Heaven," said the Countess, trembling, and colouring deeply with
anger, "it was your father's signet! the last pledge which he sent, with
his love to me, and his blessing to thee, the night before they murdered
him at Bolton!"

"Mother, dearest mother," said the Earl, startled out of his apathy, and
taking her hand, which he kissed tenderly, "I did but jest—the
signet is safe—Peveril knows that it is so.—Go fetch it,
Julian, for Heaven's sake—here are my keys—it is in the
left-hand drawer of my travelling cabinet—Nay, mother, forgive me—it
was but a mauvaise plaisanterie; only an ill-imagined jest,
ungracious, and in bad taste, I allow—but only one of Philip's
follies. Look at me, dearest mother, and forgive me."

The Countess turned her eyes towards him, from which the tears were fast
falling.

"Philip," she said, "you try me too unkindly, and too severely. If times
are changed, as I have heard you allege—if the dignity of rank, and
the high feelings of honour and duty, are now drowned in giddy jests and
trifling pursuits, let me at least, who live secluded from all
others, die without perceiving the change which has happened, and, above
all, without perceiving it in mine own son. Let me not learn the general
prevalence of this levity, which laughs at every sense of dignity or duty,
through your personal disrespect—Let me not think that when I die——"

"Speak nothing of it, mother," said the Earl, interrupting her
affectionately. "It is true, I cannot promise to be all my father and his
fathers were; for we wear silk vests for their steel coats, and feathered
beavers for their crested helmets. But believe me, though to be an
absolute Palmerin of England is not in my nature, no son ever loved a
mother more dearly, or would do more to oblige her. And that you may own
this, I will forthwith not only seal the warrants, to the great
endangerment of my precious fingers, but also read the same from end to
end, as well as the despatches thereunto appertaining."

A mother is easily appeased, even when most offended; and it was with an
expanding heart that the Countess saw her son's very handsome features,
while reading these papers, settle into an expression of deep seriousness,
such as they seldom wore. It seemed to her as if the family likeness to
his gallant but unfortunate father increased, when the expression of their
countenances became similar in gravity. The Earl had no sooner perused the
despatches, which he did with great attention, than he rose and said,
"Julian, come with me."

The Countess looked surprised. "I was wont to share your father's
counsels, my son," she said; "but do not think that I wish to intrude
myself upon yours. I am too well pleased to see you assume the power and
the duty of thinking for yourself, which is what I have so long urged you
to do. Nevertheless, my experience, who have been so long administrator of
your authority in Man, might not, I think, be superfluous to the matter in
hand."

"Hold me excused, dearest mother," said the Earl gravely. "The
interference was none of my seeking; had you taken your own course,
without consulting me, it had been well; but since I have entered on the
affair—and it appears sufficiently important—I must transact
it to the best of my own ability."

"Go, then, my son," said the Countess, "and may Heaven enlighten thee with
its counsel, since thou wilt have none of mine.—I trust that you,
Master Peveril, will remind him of what is fit for his own honour; and
that only a coward abandons his rights, and only a fool trusts his
enemies."

The Earl answered not, but, taking Peveril by the arm, led him up a
winding stair to his own apartment, and from thence into a projecting
turret, where, amidst the roar of waves and sea-mews' clang, he held with
him the following conversation:—

"Peveril, it is well I looked into these warrants. My mother queens it at
such a rate as may cost me not only my crown, which I care little for, but
perhaps my head, which, though others may think little of, I would feel it
an inconvenience to be deprived of."

"What on earth is the matter?" said Peveril, with considerable anxiety.

"It seems," said the Earl of Derby, "that old England who takes a
frolicsome brain-fever once every two or three years, for the benefit of
her doctors, and the purification of the torpid lethargy brought on by
peace and prosperity, is now gone stark staring mad on the subject of a
real or supposed Popish plot. I read one programme on the subject, by a
fellow called Oates, and thought it the most absurd foolery I ever
perused. But that cunning fellow Shaftesbury, and some others amongst the
great ones, having taken it up, and are driving on at such a rate as makes
harness crack, and horses smoke for it. The King, who has sworn never to
kiss the pillow his father went to sleep on, temporises, and gives way to
the current; the Duke of York, suspected and hated on account of his
religion, is about to be driven to the continent; several principal
Catholic nobles are in the Tower already; and the nation, like a bull at
Tutbury-running, is persecuted with so many inflammatory rumours and
pestilent pamphlets, that she has cocked her tail, flung up her heels,
taken the bit betwixt her teeth and is as furiously unmanageable as in the
year 1642."

"All this you must have known already," said Peveril; "I wonder you told
me not of news so important."

"It would have taken long to tell," said the Earl; "moreover, I desired to
have you solus; thirdly, I was about to speak when my mother
entered; and, to conclude, it was no business of mine. But these
despatches of my politic mother's private correspondent put a new face on
the whole matter; for it seems some of the informers—a trade which,
having become a thriving one, is now pursued by many—have dared to
glance at the Countess herself as an agent in this same plot—ay, and
have found those that are willing enough to believe their report."

"On mine honour," said Peveril, "you both take it with great coolness. I
think the Countess the more composed of the two; for, except her movement
hither, she exhibited no mark of alarm, and, moreover, seemed no way more
anxious to communicate the matter to your lordship than decency rendered
necessary."

"My good mother," said the Earl, "loves power, though it has cost her
dear. I wish I could truly say that my neglect of business is entirely
assumed in order to leave it in her hands, but that better motive combines
with natural indolence. But she seems to have feared I should not think
exactly like her in this emergency, and she was right in supposing so."

"How comes the emergency upon you?" said Julian; "and what form does the
danger assume?"

"Marry, thus it is," said the Earl: "I need not bid you remember the
affair of Colonel Christian. That man, besides his widow, who is possessed
of large property—Dame Christian of Kirk Truagh, whom you have often
heard of, and perhaps seen—left a brother called Edward Christian,
whom you never saw at all. Now this brother—but I dare say you know
all about it."

"Not I, on my honour," said Peveril; "you know the Countess seldom or
never alludes to the subject."

"Why," replied the Earl, "I believe in her heart she is something ashamed
of that gallant act of royalty and supreme jurisdiction, the consequences
of which maimed my estate so cruelly.—Well, cousin, this same Edward
Christian was one of the dempsters at the time, and, naturally enough, was
unwilling to concur in the sentence which adjudged his aîné to be
shot like a dog. My mother, who was then in high force, and not to be
controlled by any one, would have served the dempster with the same sauce
with which she dressed his brother, had he not been wise enough to fly
from the island. Since that time, the thing has slept on all hands; and
though we knew that Dempster Christian made occasionally secret visits to
his friends in the island, along with two or three other Puritans of the
same stamp, and particularly a prick-eared rogue, called Bridgenorth,
brother-in-law to the deceased, yet my mother, thank Heaven, has hitherto
had the sense to connive at them, though, for some reason or other, she
holds this Bridgenorth in especial disfavour."

"And why," said Peveril, forcing himself to speak, in order to conceal the
very unpleasant surprise which he felt, "why does the Countess now depart
from so prudent a line of conduct?"

"You must know the case is now different. The rogues are not satisfied
with toleration—they would have supremacy. They have found friends
in the present heat of the popular mind. My mother's name, and especially
that of her confessor, Aldrick the Jesuit, have been mentioned in this
beautiful maze of a plot, which if any such at all exists, she knows as
little of as you or I. However, she is a Catholic, and that is enough; and
I have little doubt, that if the fellows could seize on our scrap of a
kingdom here, and cut all our throats, they would have the thanks of the
present House of Commons, as willingly as old Christian had those of the
Rump, for a similar service."

"From whence did you receive all this information?" said Peveril, again
speaking, though by the same effort which a man makes who talks in his
sleep.

"Aldrick has seen the Duke of York in secret, and his Royal Highness, who
wept while he confessed his want of power to protect his friends—and
it is no trifle will wring tears from him—told him to send us
information that we should look to our safety, for that Dempster Christian
and Bridgenorth were in the island, with secret and severe orders; that
they had formed a considerable party there, and were likely to be owned
and protected in anything they might undertake against us. The people of
Ramsey and Castletown are unluckily discontented about some new regulation
of the imposts; and to tell you the truth, though I thought yesterday's
sudden remove a whim of my mother's, I am almost satisfied they would have
blockaded us in Rushin Castle, where we could not have held out for lack
of provisions. Here we are better supplied, and, as we are on our guard,
it is likely the intended rising will not take place."

"And what is to be done in this emergency?" said Peveril.

"That is the very question, my gentle coz," answered the Earl. "My mother
sees but one way of going to work, and that is by royal authority. Here
are the warrants she had prepared, to search for, take, and apprehend the
bodies of Edward Christian and Robert—no, Ralph Bridgenorth, and
bring them to instant trial. No doubt, she would soon have had them in the
Castle court, with a dozen of the old matchlocks levelled against them—that
is her way of solving all sudden difficulties."

"But in which, I trust, you do not acquiesce, my lord," answered Peveril,
whose thoughts instantly reverted to Alice, if they could ever be said to
be absent from her.

"Truly I acquiesce in no such matter," said the Earl. "William Christian's
death cost me a fair half of my inheritance. I have no fancy to fall under
the displeasure of my royal brother, King Charles, for a new escapade of
the same kind. But how to pacify my mother, I know not. I wish the
insurrection would take place, and then, as we are better provided than
they can be, we might knock the knaves on the head; and yet, since they
began the fray, we should keep the law on our side."

"Were it not better," said Peveril, "if by any means these men could be
induced to quit the island?"

"Surely," replied the Earl; "but that will be no easy matter—they
are stubborn on principle, and empty threats will not move them. This
stormblast in London is wind in their sails, and they will run their
length, you may depend on it. I have sent orders, however, to clap up the
Manxmen upon whose assistance they depended, and if I can find the two
worthies themselves, here are sloops enough in the harbour—I will
take the freedom to send them on a pretty distant voyage, and I hope
matters will be settled before they return to give an account of it."

At this moment a soldier belonging to the garrison approached the two
young men, with many bows and tokens of respect. "How now, friend?" said
the Earl to him. "Leave off thy courtesies, and tell thy business."

The man, who was a native islander, answered in Manx, that he had a letter
for his honour, Master Julian Peveril. Julian snatched the billet hastily,
and asked whence it came.

"It was delivered to him by a young woman," the soldier replied, "who had
given him a piece of money to deliver it into Master Peveril's own hand."

"Thou art a lucky fellow, Julian," said the Earl. "With that grave brow of
thine, and thy character for sobriety and early wisdom, you set the girls
a-wooing, without waiting till they are asked; whilst I, their drudge and
vassal, waste both language and leisure, without getting a kind word or
look, far less a billet-doux."

This the young Earl said with a smile of conscious triumph, as in fact he
valued himself not a little upon the interest which he supposed himself to
possess with the fair sex.

Meanwhile the letter impressed on Peveril a different train of thoughts
from what his companion apprehended. It was in Alice's hand, and contained
these few words:—

"I fear what I am going to do is wrong; but I must see you. Meet me
at noon at Goddard Crovan's Stone, with as much secrecy as you
may."

The letter was signed only with the initials A. B.; but Julian had no
difficulty in recognising the handwriting, which he had often seen, and
which was remarkably beautiful. He stood suspended, for he saw the
difficulty and impropriety of withdrawing himself from the Countess and
his friend at this moment of impending danger; and yet, to neglect this
invitation was not to be thought of. He paused in the utmost perplexity.

"Shall I read your riddle?" said the Earl. "Go where love calls you—I
will make an excuse to my mother—only, most grave anchorite, be
hereafter more indulgent to the failings of others than you have been
hitherto, and blaspheme not the power of the little deity."

"Nay, but, Cousin Derby—" said Peveril, and stopped short, for he
really knew not what to say. Secured himself by a virtuous passion from
the contagious influence of the time, he had seen with regret his noble
kinsman mingle more in its irregularities than he approved of, and had
sometimes played the part of a monitor. Circumstances seemed at present to
give the Earl a right of retaliation. He kept his eye fixed on his friend,
as if he waited till he should complete his sentence, and at length
exclaimed, "What! cousin, quite à-la-mort! Oh, most judicious
Julian! Oh, most precise Peveril! have you bestowed so much wisdom on me
that you have none left for yourself? Come, be frank—tell me name
and place—or say but the colour of the eyes of the most emphatic she—or
do but let me have the pleasure to hear thee say, 'I love!'—confess
one touch of human frailty—conjugate the verb amo, and I will
be a gentle schoolmaster, and you shall have, as father Richards used to
say, when we were under his ferule, 'licentia exeundi.'"

"Enjoy your pleasant humour at my expense, my lord," said Peveril; "I
fairly will confess thus much, that I would fain, if it consisted with my
honour and your safety, have two hours at my own disposal; the more
especially as the manner in which I shall employ them may much concern the
safety of the island."

"Very likely, I dare say," answered the Earl, still laughing. "No doubt
you are summoned out by some Lady Politic Wouldbe of the isle, to talk
over some of the breast-laws: but never mind—go, and go speedily,
that you may return as quickly as possible. I expect no immediate
explosion of this grand conspiracy. When the rogues see us on our guard,
they will be cautious how they break out. Only, once more make haste."

Peveril thought this last advice was not to be neglected; and, glad to
extricate himself from the raillery of his cousin, walked down towards the
gate of the Castle, meaning to cross over to the village, and there take
horse at the Earl's stables, for the place of rendezvous.

CHAPTER XVI

Acasto.—Can she not speak?
Oswald.—If speech be only in accented sounds,
Framed by the tongue and lips, the maiden's dumb;
But if by quick and apprehensive look,
By motion, sign, and glance, to give each meaning,
Express as clothed in language, be term'd speech,
She hath that wondrous faculty; for her eyes,
Like the bright stars of heaven, can hold discourse,
Though it be mute and soundless.
—OLD PLAY.

At the head of the first flight of steps which descended towards the
difficult and well-defended entrance of the Castle of Holm-Peel, Peveril
was met and stopped by the Countess's train-bearer. This little creature—for
she was of the least and slightest size of womankind—was exquisitely
well formed in all her limbs, which the dress she usually wore (a green
silk tunic, of a peculiar form) set off to the best advantage. Her face
was darker than the usual hue of Europeans; and the profusion of long and
silken hair, which, when she undid the braids in which she commonly wore
it, fell down almost to her ankles, was also rather a foreign attribute.
Her countenance resembled a most beautiful miniature; and there was a
quickness, decision, and fire, in Fenella's look, and especially in her
eyes, which was probably rendered yet more alert and acute, because,
through the imperfection of her other organs, it was only by sight that
she could obtain information of what passed around her.

The pretty mute was mistress of many little accomplishments, which the
Countess had caused to be taught to her in compassion for her forlorn
situation, and which she learned with the most surprising quickness. Thus,
for example, she was exquisite in the use of the needle, and so ready and
ingenious a draughtswoman, that, like the ancient Mexicans, she sometimes
made a hasty sketch with her pencil the means of conveying her ideas,
either by direct or emblematical representation. Above all, in the art of
ornamental writing, much studied at that period, Fenella was so great a
proficient, as to rival the fame of Messrs. Snow, Shelley, and other
masters of the pen, whose copybooks, preserved in the libraries of the
curious, still show the artists smiling on the frontispiece in all the
honours of flowing gowns and full-bottomed wigs, to the eternal glory of
caligraphy.

The little maiden had, besides these accomplishments, much ready wit and
acuteness of intellect. With Lady Derby, and with the two young gentlemen,
she was a great favourite, and used much freedom in conversing with them,
by means of a system of signs which had been gradually established amongst
them, and which served all ordinary purposes of communication.

But, though happy in the indulgence and favour of her mistress, from whom
indeed she was seldom separate, Fenella was by no means a favourite with
the rest of the household. In fact, it seemed that her temper, exasperated
perhaps by a sense of her misfortune, was by no means equal to her
abilities. She was very haughty in her demeanour, even towards the upper
domestics, who in that establishment were of a much higher rank and better
birth than in the families of the nobility in general. These often
complained, not only of her pride and reserve, but of her high and
irascible temper and vindictive disposition. Her passionate propensity had
been indeed idly encouraged by the young men, and particularly by the
Earl, who sometimes amused himself with teasing her, that he might enjoy
the various singular motions and murmurs by which she expressed her
resentment. Towards him, these were of course only petulant and whimsical
indications of pettish anger. But when she was angry with others of
inferior degree—before whom she did not control herself—the
expression of her passion, unable to display itself in language, had
something even frightful, so singular were the tones, contortions, and
gestures, to which she had recourse. The lower domestics, to whom she was
liberal almost beyond her apparent means, observed her with much deference
and respect, but much more from fear than from any real attachment; for
the caprices of her temper displayed themselves even in her gifts; and
those who most frequently shared her bounty, seemed by no means assured of
the benevolence of the motives which dictated her liberality.

All these peculiarities led to a conclusion consonant with Manx
superstition. Devout believers in all the legends of fairies so dear to
the Celtic tribes, the Manx people held it for certainty that the elves
were in the habit of carrying off mortal children before baptism, and
leaving in the cradle of the new born babe one of their own brood, which
was almost always imperfect in some one or other of the organs proper to
humanity. Such a being they conceived Fenella to be; and the smallness of
her size, her dark complexion, her long locks of silken hair, the
singularity of her manners and tones, as well as the caprices of her
temper, were to their thinking all attributes of the irritable, fickle,
and dangerous race from which they supposed her to be sprung. And it
seemed, that although no jest appeared to offend her more than when Lord
Derby called her in sport the Elfin Queen, or otherwise alluded to her
supposed connection with "the pigmy folk," yet still her perpetually
affecting to wear the colour of green, proper to the fairies, as well as
some other peculiarities, seemed voluntarily assumed by her, in order to
countenance the superstition, perhaps because it gave her more authority
among the lower orders.

Many were the tales circulated respecting the Countess's Elf, as
Fenella was currently called in the island; and the malcontents of the
stricter persuasion were convinced, that no one but a Papist and a
malignant would have kept near her person a creature of such doubtful
origin. They conceived that Fenella's deafness and dumbness were only
towards those of this world, and that she had been heard talking, and
singing, and laughing most elvishly, with the invisibles of her own race.
They alleged, also, that she had a Double, a sort of apparition
resembling her, which slept in the Countess's ante-room, or bore her
train, or wrought in her cabinet, while the real Fenella joined the song
of the mermaids on the moonlight sands, or the dance of the fairies in the
haunted valley of Glenmoy, or on the heights of Snawfell and Barool. The
sentinels, too, would have sworn they had seen the little maiden trip past
them in their solitary night walks, without their having it in their power
to challenge her, any more than if they had been as mute as herself. To
all this mass of absurdities the better informed paid no more attention
than to the usual idle exaggerations of the vulgar, which so frequently
connect that which is unusual with what is supernatural.

Such, in form and habits, was the little female, who, holding in her hand
a small old-fashioned ebony rod, which might have passed for a divining
wand, confronted Julian on the top of the flight of steps which led down
the rock from the Castle court. We ought to observe, that as Julian's
manner to the unfortunate girl had been always gentle, and free from those
teasing jests in which his gay friend indulged, with less regard to the
peculiarity of her situation and feelings; so Fenella, on her part, had
usually shown much greater deference to him than to any of the household,
her mistress, the Countess, always excepted.

On the present occasion, planting herself in the very midst of the narrow
descent, so as to make it impossible for Peveril to pass by her, she
proceeded to put him to the question by a series of gestures, which we
will endeavour to describe. She commenced by extending her hand slightly,
accompanied with the sharp inquisitive look which served her as a note of
interrogation. This was meant as an inquiry whether he was going to a
distance. Julian, in reply, extended his arm more than half, to intimate
that the distance was considerable. Fenella looked grave, shook her head,
and pointed to the Countess's window, which was visible from the spot
where they stood. Peveril smiled, and nodded, to intimate there was no
danger in quitting her mistress for a short space. The little maiden next
touched an eagle's feather which she wore in her hair, a sign which she
usually employed to designate the Earl, and then looked inquisitively at
Julian once more, as if to say, "Goes he with you?" Peveril shook his
head, and, somewhat wearied by these interrogatories, smiled, and made an
effort to pass. Fenella frowned, struck the end of her ebony rod
perpendicularly on the ground, and again shook her head, as if opposing
his departure. But finding that Julian persevered in his purpose, she
suddenly assumed another and milder mood, held him by the skirt of his
cloak with one hand, and raised the other in an imploring attitude, whilst
every feature of her lively countenance was composed into the like
expression of supplication; and the fire of the large dark eyes, which
seemed in general so keen and piercing as almost to over-animate the
little sphere to which they belonged, seemed quenched, for the moment, in
the large drops which hung on her long eyelashes, but without falling.

Julian Peveril was far from being void of sympathy towards the poor girl,
whose motives in opposing his departure appeared to be her affectionate
apprehension for her mistress's safety. He endeavoured to reassure by
smiles, and, at the same time, by such signs as he could devise, to
intimate that there was no danger, and that he would return presently; and
having succeeded in extricating his cloak from her grasp, and in passing
her on the stair, he began to descend the steps as speedily as he could,
in order to avoid farther importunity.

But with activity much greater than his, the dumb maiden hastened to
intercept him, and succeeded by throwing herself, at the imminent risk of
life and limb, a second time into the pass which he was descending, so as
to interrupt his purpose. In order to achieve this, she was obliged to let
herself drop a considerable height from the wall of a small flanking
battery, where two patereroes were placed to scour the pass, in case any
enemy could have mounted so high. Julian had scarce time to shudder at her
purpose, as he beheld her about to spring from the parapet, ere, like a
thing of gossamer, she stood light and uninjured on the rocky platform
below. He endeavoured, by the gravity of his look and gesture, to make her
understand how much he blamed her rashness; but the reproof, though
obviously quite intelligible, was entirely thrown away. A hasty wave of
her hand intimated how she contemned the danger and the remonstrance;
while, at the same time, she instantly resumed, with more eagerness than
before, the earnest and impressive gestures by which she endeavoured to
detain him in the fortress.

Julian was somewhat staggered by her pertinacity. "Is it possible," he
thought, "that any danger can approach the Countess, of which this poor
maiden has, by the extreme acuteness of her observation, obtained
knowledge which has escaped others?"

He signed to Fenella hastily to give him the tablets and the pencil which
she usually carried with her, and wrote on them the question, "Is there
danger near to your mistress, that you thus stop me?"

"There is danger around the Countess," was the answer instantly written
down; "but there is much more in your own purpose."

"How?—what?—what know you of my purpose?" said Julian,
forgetting, in his surprise, that the party he addressed had neither ear
to comprehend, nor voice to reply to uttered language. She had regained
her book in the meantime, and sketched, with a rapid pencil, on one of the
leaves, a scene which she showed to Julian. To his infinite surprise he
recognised Goddard Crovan's Stone, a remarkable monument, of which she had
given the outline with sufficient accuracy; together with a male and
female figure, which, though only indicated by a few slight touches of the
pencil, bore yet, he thought, some resemblance to himself and Alice
Bridgenorth.

When he had gazed on the sketch for an instant with surprise, Fenella took
the book from his hand, laid her finger upon the drawing, and slowly and
sternly shook her head, with a frown which seemed to prohibit the meeting
which was there represented. Julian, however, though disconcerted, was in
no shape disposed to submit to the authority of his monitress. By whatever
means she, who so seldom stirred from the Countess's apartment, had become
acquainted with a secret which he thought entirely his own, he esteemed it
the more necessary to keep the appointed rendezvous, that he might learn
from Alice, if possible, how the secret had transpired. He had also formed
the intention of seeking out Bridgenorth; entertaining an idea that a
person so reasonable and calm as he had shown himself in their late
conference, might be persuaded, when he understood that the Countess was
aware of his intrigues, to put an end to her danger and his own, by
withdrawing from the island. And could he succeed in this point, he should
at once, he thought, render a material benefit to the father of his
beloved Alice—remove the Earl from his state of anxiety—save
the Countess from a second time putting her feudal jurisdiction in
opposition to that of the Crown of England—and secure quiet
possession of the island to her and her family.

With this scheme of mediation on his mind, Peveril determined to rid
himself of the opposition of Fenella to his departure, with less ceremony
than he had hitherto observed towards her; and suddenly lifting up the
damsel in his arms before she was aware of his purpose, he turned about,
set her down on the steps above him, and began to descend the pass himself
as speedily as possible. It was then that the dumb maiden gave full course
to the vehemence of her disposition; and clapping her hands repeatedly,
expressed her displeasure in sound, or rather a shriek, so extremely
dissonant, that it resembled more the cry of a wild creature, than
anything which could have been uttered by female organs. Peveril was so
astounded at the scream as it rung through the living rocks, that he could
not help stopping and looking back in alarm, to satisfy himself that she
had not sustained some injury. He saw her, however, perfectly safe, though
her face seemed inflamed and distorted with passion. She stamped at him
with her foot, shook her clenched hand, and turning her back upon him,
without further adieu, ran up the rude steps as lightly as a kid could
have tripped up that rugged ascent, and paused for a moment at the summit
of the first flight.

Julian could feel nothing but wonder and compassion for the impotent
passion of a being so unfortunately circumstanced, cut off, as it were,
from the rest of mankind, and incapable of receiving in childhood that
moral discipline which teaches us mastery of our wayward passions, ere yet
they have attained their meridian strength and violence. He waved his hand
to her, in token of amicable farewell; but she only replied by once more
menacing him with her little hand clenched; and then ascending the rocky
staircase with almost preternatural speed, was soon out of sight.

Julian, on his part, gave no farther consideration to her conduct or its
motives, but hastening to the village on the mainland, where the stables
of the Castle were situated, he again took his palfrey from the stall, and
was soon mounted and on his way to the appointed place of rendezvous, much
marvelling, as he ambled forward with speed far greater than was promised
by the diminutive size of the animal he was mounted on, what could have
happened to produce so great a change in Alice's conduct towards him, that
in place of enjoining his absence as usual, or recommending his departure
from the island, she should now voluntarily invite him to a meeting. Under
impression of the various doubts which succeeded each other in his
imagination, he sometimes pressed Fairy's sides with his legs; sometimes
laid his holly rod lightly on her neck; sometimes incited her by his
voice, for the mettled animal needed neither whip nor spur, and achieved
the distance betwixt the Castle of Holm-Peel and the stone at Goddard
Crovan, at the rate of twelve miles within the hour.

The monumental stone, designed to commemorate some feat of an ancient King
of Man, which had been long forgotten, was erected on the side of a narrow
lonely valley, or rather glen, secluded from observation by the steepness
of its banks, upon a projection of which stood the tall, shapeless,
solitary rock, frowning, like a shrouded giant, over the brawling of the
small rivulet which watered the ravine.

CHAPTER XVII

This a love-meeting? See the maiden mourns,
And the sad suitor bends his looks on earth.
There's more hath pass'd between them than belongs
To Love's sweet sorrows.
—OLD PLAY.

As he approached the monument of Goddard Crovan, Julian cast many an
anxious glance to see whether any object visible beside the huge grey
stone should apprise him, whether he was anticipated, at the appointed
place of rendezvous, by her who had named it. Nor was it long before the
flutter of a mantle, which the breeze slightly waved, and the motion
necessary to replace it upon the wearer's shoulders, made him aware that
Alice had already reached their place of meeting. One instant set the
palfrey at liberty, with slackened girths and loosened reins, to pick its
own way through the dell at will; another placed Julian Peveril by the
side of Alice Bridgenorth.

That Alice should extend her hand to her lover, as with the ardour of a
young greyhound he bounded over the obstacles of the rugged path, was as
natural as that Julian, seizing on the hand so kindly stretched out,
should devour it with kisses, and, for a moment or two, without
reprehension; while the other hand, which should have aided in the
liberation of its fellow, served to hide the blushes of the fair owner.
But Alice, young as she was, and attached to Julian by such long habits of
kindly intimacy, still knew well how to subdue the tendency of her own
treacherous affections.

"This is not right," she said, extricating her hand from Julian's grasp,
"this is not right, Julian. If I have been too rash in admitting such a
meeting as the present, it is not you that should make me sensible of my
folly."

Julian Peveril's mind had been early illuminated with that touch of
romantic fire which deprives passion of selfishness, and confers on it the
high and refined tone of generous and disinterested devotion. He let go
the hand of Alice with as much respect as he could have paid to that of a
princess; and when she seated herself upon a rocky fragment, over which
nature had stretched a cushion of moss and lichen, interspersed with wild
flowers, backed with a bush of copsewood, he took his place beside her,
indeed, but at such distance as to intimate the duty of an attendant, who
was there only to hear and to obey. Alice Bridgenorth became more assured
as she observed the power which she possessed over her lover; and the
self-command which Peveril exhibited, which other damsels in her situation
might have judged inconsistent with intensity of passion, she appreciated
more justly, as a proof of his respectful and disinterested sincerity. She
recovered, in addressing him, the tone of confidence which rather belonged
to the scenes of their early acquaintance, than to those which had passed
betwixt them since Peveril had disclosed his affection, and thereby had
brought restraint upon their intercourse.

"Julian," she said, "your visit of yesterday—your most ill-timed
visit, has distressed me much. It has misled my father—it has
endangered you. At all risks, I resolved that you should know this, and
blame me not if I have taken a bold and imprudent step in desiring this
solitary interview, since you are aware how little poor Deborah is to be
trusted."

"Cease your protestations, Julian," answered the maiden; "they do but make
me the more sensible that I have acted over boldly. But I did for the
best.—I could not see you whom I have known so long—you, who
say you regard me with partiality——"

"Say that I regard you with partiality!" interrupted Peveril in his
turn. "Ah, Alice, with a cold and doubtful phrase you have used to express
the most devoted, the most sincere affection!"

"Well, then," said Alice sadly, "we will not quarrel about words; but do
not again interrupt me.—I could not, I say, see you, who, I believe,
regard me with sincere though vain and fruitless attachment, rush
blindfold into a snare, deceived and seduced by those very feelings
towards me."

"I understand you not, Alice," said Peveril; "nor can I see any danger to
which I am at present exposed. The sentiments which your father has
expressed towards me, are of a nature irreconcilable with hostile
purposes. If he is not offended with the bold wishes I may have formed,—and
his whole behaviour shows the contrary,—I know not a man on earth
from whom I have less cause to apprehend any danger or ill-will."

"My father," said Alice, "means well by his country, and well by you; yet
I sometimes fear he may rather injure than serve his good cause; and still
more do I dread, that in attempting to engage you as an auxiliary, he may
forget those ties which ought to bind you, and I am sure which will bind
you, to a different line of conduct from his own."

"You lead me into still deeper darkness, Alice," answered Peveril. "That
your father's especial line of politics differs widely from mine, I know
well; but how many instances have occurred, even during the bloody scenes
of civil warfare, of good and worthy men laying the prejudice of party
affections aside, and regarding each other with respect, and even with
friendly attachment, without being false to principle on either side?"

"It may be so," said Alice; "but such is not the league which my father
desires to form with you, and that to which he hopes your misplaced
partiality towards his daughter may afford a motive for your forming with
him."

"And what is it," said Peveril, "which I would refuse, with such a
prospect before me?"

"Treachery and dishonour!" replied Alice; "whatever would render you
unworthy of the poor boon at which you aim—ay, were it more
worthless than I confess it to be."

"Would your father," said Peveril, as he unwillingly received the
impression which Alice designed to convey,—"would he, whose views of
duty are so strict and severe—would he wish to involve me in aught,
to which such harsh epithets as treachery and dishonour can be applied
with the lightest shadow of truth?"

"Do not mistake me, Julian," replied the maiden; "my father is incapable
of requesting aught of you that is not to his thinking just and
honourable; nay, he conceives that he only claims from you a debt, which
is due as a creature to the Creator, and as a man to your fellow-men."

"So guarded, where can be the danger of our intercourse?" replied Julian.
"If he be resolved to require, and I determined to accede to, nothing save
what flows from conviction, what have I to fear, Alice? And how is my
intercourse with your father dangerous? Believe not so; his speech has
already made impression on me in some particulars, and he listened with
candour and patience to the objections which I made occasionally. You do
Master Bridgenorth less than justice in confounding him with the
unreasonable bigots in policy and religion, who can listen to no argument
but what favours their own prepossessions."

"Julian," replied Alice; "it is you who misjudge my father's powers, and
his purpose with respect to you, and who overrate your own powers of
resistance. I am but a girl, but I have been taught by circumstances to
think for myself, and to consider the character of those around me. My
father's views in ecclesiastical and civil policy are as dear to him as
the life which he cherishes only to advance them. They have been, with
little alteration, his companions through life. They brought him at one
period into prosperity, and when they suited not the times, he suffered
for having held them. They have become not only a part, but the very
dearest part, of his existence. If he shows them not to you at first, in
the flexible strength which they have acquired over his mind, do not
believe that they are the less powerful. He who desires to make converts,
must begin by degrees. But that he should sacrifice to an inexperienced
young man, whose ruling motive he will term a childish passion, any part
of those treasured principles which he has maintained through good repute
and bad repute—Oh, do not dream of such an impossibility! If you
meet at all, you must be the wax, he the seal—you must receive, he
must bestow, an absolute impression."

"That," said Peveril, "were unreasonable. I will frankly avow to you,
Alice, that I am not a sworn bigot to the opinions entertained by my
father, much as I respect his person. I could wish that our Cavaliers, or
whatsoever they are pleased to call themselves, would have some more
charity towards those who differ from them in Church and State. But to
hope that I would surrender the principles in which I have lived, were to
suppose me capable of deserting my benefactress, and breaking the hearts
of my parents."

"Even so I judged of you," answered Alice; "and therefore I asked this
interview, to conjure that you will break off all intercourse with our
family—return to your parents—or, what will be much safer,
visit the continent once more, and abide till God send better days to
England, for these are black with many a storm."

"And can you bid me go, Alice?" said the young man, taking her unresisting
hand; "can you bid me go, and yet own an interest in my fate?—Can
you bid me, for fear of dangers, which, as a man, as a gentleman, and a
loyal one, I am bound to show my face to, meanly abandon my parents, my
friends, my country—suffer the existence of evils which I might aid
to prevent—forego the prospect of doing such little good as might be
in my power—fall from an active and honourable station, into the
condition of a fugitive and time-server—Can you bid me do all this,
Alice? Can you bid me do all this, and, in the same breath, bid farewell
for ever to you and happiness?—It is impossible—I cannot
surrender at once my love and my honour."

"There is no remedy," said Alice, but she could not suppress a sigh while
she said so—"there is no remedy—none whatever. What we might
have been to each other, placed in more favourable circumstances, it
avails not to think of now; and, circumstanced as we are, with open war
about to break out betwixt our parents and friends, we can be but
well-wishers—cold and distant well-wishers, who must part on this
spot, and at this hour, never meet again."

"No, by Heaven!" said Peveril, animated at the same time by his own
feelings, and by the sight of the emotions which his companion in vain
endeavoured to suppress,—"No, by Heaven!" he exclaimed, "we part not—Alice,
we part not. If I am to leave my native land, you shall be my companion in
my exile. What have you to lose?—Whom have you to abandon?—Your
father?—The good old cause, as it is termed, is dearer to him than a
thousand daughters; and setting him aside, what tie is there between you
and this barren isle—between my Alice and any spot of the British
dominions, where her Julian does not sit by her?"

"O Julian," answered the maiden, "why make my duty more painful by
visionary projects, which you ought not to name, or I to listen to? Your
parents—my father—it cannot be!"

"Fear not for my parents, Alice," replied Julian, and pressing close to
his companion's side, he ventured to throw his arm around her; "they love
me, and they will soon learn to love, in Alice, the only being on earth
who could have rendered their son happy. And for your own father, when
State and Church intrigues allow him to bestow a thought upon you, will he
not think that your happiness, your security, is better cared for when you
are my wife, than were you to continue under the mercenary charge of
yonder foolish woman? What could his pride desire better for you, than the
establishment which will one day be mine? Come then, Alice, and since you
condemn me to banishment—since you deny me a share in those stirring
achievements which are about to agitate England—come! do you—for
you only can—do you reconcile me to exile and inaction, and give
happiness to one, who, for your sake, is willing to resign honour."

"It cannot—it cannot be," said Alice, faltering as she uttered her
negative. "And yet," she said, "how many in my place—left alone and
unprotected, as I am—But I must not—I must not—for your
sake, Julian, I must not."

"Say not for my sake you must not, Alice," said Peveril eagerly; "this is
adding insult to cruelty. If you will do aught for my sake, you will say
yes; or you will suffer this dear head to drop on my shoulder—the
slightest sign—the moving of an eyelid, shall signify consent. All
shall be prepared within an hour; within another the priest shall unite
us; and within a third, we leave the isle behind us, and seek our fortunes
on the continent." But while he spoke, in joyful anticipation of the
consent which he implored, Alice found means to collect together her
resolution, which, staggered by the eagerness of her lover, the impulse of
her own affections, and the singularity of her situation,—seeming,
in her case, to justify what would have been most blamable in another,—had
more than half abandoned her.

The result of a moment's deliberation was fatal to Julian's proposal. She
extricated herself from the arm which had pressed her to his side—arose,
and repelling his attempts to approach or detain her, said, with a
simplicity not unmingled with dignity, "Julian, I always knew I risked
much in inviting you to this meeting; but I did not guess that I could
have been so cruel to both to you and to myself, as to suffer you to
discover what you have to-day seen too plainly—that I love you
better than you love me. But since you do know it, I will show you that
Alice's love is disinterested—She will not bring an ignoble name
into your ancient house. If hereafter, in your line, there should arise
some who may think the claims of the hierarchy too exorbitant, the powers
of the crown too extensive, men shall not say these ideas were derived
from Alice Bridgenorth, their whig granddame."

"Can you speak thus, Alice?" said her lover. "Can you use such
expressions? and are you not sensible that they show plainly it is your
own pride, not regard for me, that makes you resist the happiness of
both?"

"Not so, Julian; not so," answered Alice, with tears in her eyes; "it is
the command of duty to us both—of duty, which we cannot transgress,
without risking our happiness here and hereafter. Think what I, the cause
of all, should feel, when your father frowns, your mother weeps, your
noble friends stand aloof, and you, even you yourself, shall have made the
painful discovery, that you have incurred the contempt and resentment of
all to satisfy a boyish passion; and that the poor beauty, once sufficient
to mislead you, is gradually declining under the influence of grief and
vexation. This I will not risk. I see distinctly it is best we should here
break off and part; and I thank God, who gives me light enough to
perceive, and strength enough to withstand, your folly as well as my own.
Farewell, then, Julian; but first take the solemn advice which I called
you hither to impart to you:—Shun my father—you cannot walk in
his paths, and be true to gratitude and to honour. What he doth from pure
and honourable motives, you cannot aid him in, except upon the suggestion
of a silly and interested passion, at variance with all the engagements
you have formed at coming into life."

"Once more, Alice," answered Julian, "I understand you not. If a course of
action is good, it needs no vindication from the actor's motives—if
bad, it can derive none."

"You cannot blind me with your sophistry, Julian," replied Alice
Bridgenorth, "any more than you can overpower me with your passion. Had
the patriarch destined his son to death upon any less ground than faith
and humble obedience to a divine commandment, he had meditated a murder
and not a sacrifice. In our late bloody and lamentable wars, how many drew
swords on either side, from the purest and most honourable motives? How
many from the culpable suggestions of ambition, self-seeking, and love of
plunder? Yet while they marched in the same ranks, and spurred their
horses at the same trumpet-sound, the memory of the former is dear to us
as patriots or loyalists—that of those who acted on mean or unworthy
promptings, is either execrated or forgotten. Once more, I warn you, avoid
my father—leave this island, which will be soon agitated by strange
incidents—while you stay, be on your guard—distrust everything—be
jealous of every one, even of those to whom it may seem almost impossible,
from circumstances, to attach a shadow of suspicion—trust not the
very stones of the most secret apartment in Holm-Peel, for that which hath
wings shall carry the matter."

Here Alice broke off suddenly, and with a faint shriek; for, stepping from
behind the stunted copse which had concealed him, her father stood
unexpectedly before them.

The reader cannot have forgotten that this was the second time in which
the stolen interviews of the lovers had been interrupted by the unexpected
apparition of Major Bridgenorth. On this second occasion his countenance
exhibited anger mixed with solemnity, like that of the spirit to a
ghost-seer, whom he upbraids with having neglected a charge imposed at
their first meeting. Even his anger, however, produced no more violent
emotion than a cold sternness of manner in his speech and action. "I thank
you, Alice," he said to his daughter, "for the pains you have taken to
traverse my designs towards this young man, and towards yourself. I thank
you for the hints you have thrown out before my appearance, the suddenness
of which alone has prevented you from carrying your confidence to a pitch
which would have placed my life and that of others at the discretion of a
boy, who, when the cause of God and his country is laid before him, has
not leisure to think of them, so much is he occupied with such a baby-face
as thine." Alice, pale as death, continued motionless, with her eyes fixed
on the ground, without attempting the slightest reply to the ironical
reproaches of her father.

"And you," continued Major Bridgenorth, turning from his daughter to her
lover,—"you sir, have well repaid the liberal confidence which I
placed in you with so little reserve. You I have to thank also for some
lessons, which may teach me to rest satisfied with the churl's blood which
nature has poured into my veins, and with the rude nurture which my father
allotted to me."

"I understand you not, sir," replied Julian Peveril, who, feeling the
necessity of saying something, could not, at the moment, find anything
more fitting to say.

"Yes, sir, I thank you," said Major Bridgenorth, in the same cold
sarcastic tone, "for having shown me that breach of hospitality,
infringement of good faith, and such like peccadilloes, are not utterly
foreign to the mind and conduct of the heir of a knightly house of twenty
descents. It is a great lesson to me, sir: for hitherto I had thought with
the vulgar, that gentle manners went with gentle blood. But perhaps
courtesy is too chivalrous a quality to be wasted in intercourse with a
round-headed fanatic like myself."

"Major Bridgenorth," said Julian, "whatever has happened in this interview
which may have displeased you, has been the result of feelings suddenly
and strongly animated by the crisis of the moment—nothing was
premeditated."

"Not even your meeting, I suppose?" replied Bridgenorth, in the same cold
tone. "You, sir, wandered hither from Holm-Peel—my daughter strolled
forth from the Black Fort; and chance, doubtless, assigned you a meeting
by the stone of Goddard Crovan?—Young man, disgrace yourself by no
more apologies—they are worse than useless.—And you, maiden,
who, in your fear of losing your lover, could verge on betraying what
might have cost a father his life—begone to your home. I will talk
with you at more leisure, and teach you practically those duties which you
seem to have forgotten."

"On my honour, sir," said Julian, "your daughter is guiltless of all that
can offend you; she resisted every offer which the headstrong violence of
my passion urged me to press upon her."

"And, in brief," said Bridgenorth, "I am not to believe that you met in
this remote place of rendezvous by Alice's special appointment?"

Peveril knew not what to reply, and Bridgenorth again signed with his hand
to his daughter to withdraw.

"I obey you, father," said Alice, who had by this time recovered from the
extremity of her surprise,—"I obey you; but Heaven is my witness
that you do me more than injustice in suspecting me capable of betraying
your secrets, even had it been necessary to save my own life or that of
Julian. That you are walking in a dangerous path I well know; but you do
it with your eyes open, and are actuated by motives of which you can
estimate the worth and value. My sole wish was, that this young man should
not enter blindfold on the same perils; and I had a right to warn him,
since the feelings by which he is hoodwinked had a direct reference to
me."

"'Tis well, minion," said Bridgenorth, "you have spoken your say. Retire,
and let me complete the conference which you have so considerately
commenced."

"I go, sir," said Alice.—"Julian, to you my last words are, and I
would speak them with my last breath—Farewell, and caution!"

She turned from them, disappeared among the underwood, and was seen no
more.

"A true specimen of womankind," said her father, looking after her, "who
would give the cause of nations up, rather than endanger a hair of her
lover's head.—You, Master Peveril, doubtless, hold her opinion, that
the best love is a safe love!"

"Were danger alone in my way," said Peveril, much surprised at the
softened tone in which Bridgenorth made this observation, "there are few
things which I would not face to—to—deserve your good
opinion."

"Or rather to win my daughter's hand," said Bridgenorth. "Well, young man,
one thing has pleased me in your conduct, though of much I have my reasons
to complain—one thing has pleased me. You have surmounted
that bounding wall of aristocratical pride, in which your father, and, I
suppose, his fathers, remained imprisoned, as in the precincts of a feudal
fortress—you have leaped over this barrier, and shown yourself not
unwilling to ally yourself with a family whom your father spurns as
low-born and ignoble."

However favourable this speech sounded towards success in his suit, it so
broadly stated the consequences of that success so far as his parents were
concerned, that Julian felt it in the last degree difficult to reply. At
length, perceiving that Major Bridgenorth seemed resolved quietly to await
his answer, he mustered up courage to say, "The feelings which I entertain
towards your daughter, Master Bridgenorth, are of a nature to supersede
many other considerations, to which in any other case, I should feel it my
duty to give the most reverential attention. I will not disguise from you,
that my father's prejudices against such a match would be very strong; but
I devoutly believe they would disappear when he came to know the merit of
Alice Bridgenorth, and to be sensible that she only could make his son
happy."

"In the meanwhile, you are desirous to complete the union which you
propose without the knowledge of your parents, and take the chance of
their being hereafter reconciled to it? So I understand, from the proposal
which you made but lately to my daughter."

The turns of human nature, and of human passion, are so irregular and
uncertain, that although Julian had but a few minutes before urged to
Alice a private marriage, and an elopement to the continent, as a measure
upon which the whole happiness of his life depended, the proposal seemed
not to him half so delightful when stated by the calm, cold, dictatorial
accents of her father. It sounded no longer like the dictates of ardent
passion, throwing all other considerations aside, but as a distinct
surrender of the dignity of his house to one who seemed to consider their
relative situation as the triumph of Bridgenorth over Peveril. He was mute
for a moment, in the vain attempt to shape his answer so as at once to
intimate acquiescence in what Bridgenorth stated, and a vindication of his
own regard for his parents, and for the honour of his house.

This delay gave rise to suspicion, and Bridgenorth's eye gleamed, and his
lip quivered while he gave vent to it. "Hark ye, young man—deal
openly with me in this matter, if you would not have me think you the
execrable villain who would have seduced an unhappy girl, under promises
which he never designed to fulfil. Let me but suspect this, and you shall
see, on the spot, how far your pride and your pedigree will preserve you
against the just vengeance of a father."

"You do me wrong," said Peveril—"you do me infinite wrong, Major
Bridgenorth, I am incapable of the infamy which you allude to. The
proposal I made to your daughter was as sincere as ever was offered by man
to woman. I only hesitated, because you think it necessary to examine me
so very closely; and to possess yourself of all my purposes and
sentiments, in their fullest extent, without explaining to me the tendency
of your own."

"Your proposal, then, shapes itself thus," said Bridgenorth:—"You
are willing to lead my only child into exile from her native country, to
give her a claim to kindness and protection from your family, which you
know will be disregarded, on condition I consent to bestow her hand on
you, with a fortune sufficient to have matched your ancestors, when they
had most reason to boast of their wealth. This, young man, seems no equal
bargain. And yet," he continued, after a momentary pause, "so little do I
value the goods of this world, that it might not be utterly beyond thy
power to reconcile me to the match which you have proposed to me, however
unequal it may appear."

"Show me but the means which can propitiate your favour, Major
Bridgenorth," said Peveril,—"for I will not doubt that they will be
consistent with my honour and duty—and you shall soon see how
eagerly I will obey your directions, or submit to your conditions."

"They are summed in few words," answered Bridgenorth. "Be an honest man,
and the friend of your country."

"No one has ever doubted," replied Peveril, "that I am both."

"Pardon me," replied the Major; "no one has, as yet, seen you show
yourself either. Interrupt me not—I question not your will to be
both; but you have hitherto neither had the light nor the opportunity
necessary for the display of your principles, or the service of your
country. You have lived when an apathy of mind, succeeding to the
agitations of the Civil War, had made men indifferent to state affairs,
and more willing to cultivate their own ease, than to stand in the gap
when the Lord was pleading with Israel. But we are Englishmen; and with us
such unnatural lethargy cannot continue long. Already, many of those who
most desired the return of Charles Stewart, regard him as a King whom
Heaven, importuned by our entreaties, gave to us in His anger. His
unlimited licence—and example so readily followed by the young and
the gay around him—has disgusted the minds of all sober and thinking
men. I had not now held conference with you in this intimate fashion, were
I not aware that you, Master Julian, were free from such stain of the
times. Heaven, that rendered the King's course of license fruitful, had
denied issue to his bed of wedlock; and in the gloomy and stern character
of his bigoted successor, we already see what sort of monarch shall
succeed to the crown of England. This is a critical period, at which it
necessarily becomes the duty of all men to step forward, each in his
degree, and aid in rescuing the country which gave us birth." Peveril
remembered the warning which he had received from Alice, and bent his eyes
on the ground, without returning any reply. "How is it, young man,"
continued Bridgenorth, after a pause—"so young as thou art, and
bound by no ties of kindred profligacy with the enemies of your country,
you can be already hardened to the claims she may form on you at this
crisis?"

"It were easy to answer you generally, Major Bridgenorth," replied Peveril—"It
were easy to say that my country cannot make a claim on me which I will
not promptly answer at the risk of lands and life. But in dealing thus
generally, we should but deceive each other. What is the nature of this
call? By whom is it to be sounded? And what are to be the results? for I
think you have already seen enough of the evils of civil war, to be wary
of again awakening its terrors in a peaceful and happy country."

"They that are drenched with poisonous narcotics," said the Major, "must
be awakened by their physicians, though it were with the sound of the
trumpet. Better that men should die bravely, with their arms in their
hands, like free-born Englishmen, than that they should slide into the
bloodless but dishonoured grave which slavery opens for its vassals—But
it is not of war that I was about to speak," he added, assuming a milder
tone. "The evils of which England now complains, are such as can be
remedied by the wholesome administration of her own laws, even in the
state in which they are still suffered to exist. Have these laws not a
right to the support of every individual who lives under them? Have they
not a right to yours?"

As he seemed to pause for an answer, Peveril replied, "I have to learn,
Major Bridgenorth, how the laws of England have become so far weakened as
to require such support as mine. When that is made plain to me, no man
will more willingly discharge the duty of a faithful liegeman to the law
as well as the King. But the laws of England are under the guardianship of
upright and learned judges, and of a gracious monarch."

"And of a House of Commons," interrupted Bridgenorth, "no longer doting
upon restored monarchy, but awakened, as with a peal of thunder, to the
perilous state of our religion, and of our freedom. I appeal to your own
conscience, Julian Peveril, whether this awakening hath not been in time,
since you yourself know, and none better than you, the secret but rapid
strides which Rome has made to erect her Dagon of idolatry within our
Protestant land."

Here Julian seeing, or thinking he saw, the drift of Bridgenorth's
suspicions, hastened to exculpate himself from the thought of favouring
the Roman Catholic religion. "It is true," he said, "I have been educated
in a family where that faith is professed by one honoured individual, and
that I have since travelled in Popish countries; but even for these very
reasons I have seen Popery too closely to be friendly to its tenets. The
bigotry of the laymen—the persevering arts of the priesthood—the
perpetual intrigue for the extension of the forms without the spirit of
religion—the usurpation of that Church over the consciences of men—and
her impious pretensions to infallibility, are as inconsistent to my mind
as they can seem to yours, with common-sense, rational liberty, freedom of
conscience, and pure religion."

"Spoken like the son of your excellent mother," said Bridgenorth, grasping
his hand; "for whose sake I have consented to endure so much from your
house unrequited, even when the means of requital were in my own hand."

"It was indeed from the instructions of that excellent parent," said
Peveril, "that I was enabled, in my early youth, to resist and repel the
insidious attacks made upon my religious faith by the Catholic priests
into whose company I was necessarily thrown. Like her, I trust to live and
die in the faith of the reformed Church of England."

"The Church of England!" said Bridgenorth, dropping his young friend's
hand, but presently resuming it—"Alas! that Church, as now
constituted, usurps scarcely less than Rome herself upon men's consciences
and liberties; yet, out of the weakness of this half-reformed Church, may
God be pleased to work out deliverance to England, and praise to Himself.
I must not forget, that one whose services have been in the cause
incalculable, wears the garb of an English priest, and hath had Episcopal
ordination. It is not for us to challenge the instrument, so that our
escape is achieved from the net of the fowler. Enough, that I find thee
not as yet enlightened with the purer doctrine, but prepared to profit by
it when the spark shall reach thee. Enough, in especial, that I find thee
willing to uplift thy testimony to cry aloud and spare not, against the
errors and arts of the Church of Rome. But remember, what thou hast now
said, thou wilt soon be called upon to justify, in a manner the most
solemn—the most awful."

"What I have said," replied Julian Peveril, "being the unbiassed
sentiments of my heart, shall, upon no proper occasion, want the support
of my open avowal; and I think it strange you should doubt me so far."

"I doubt thee not, my young friend," said Bridgenorth; "and I trust to see
that name rank high amongst those by whom the prey shall be rent from the
mighty. At present, thy prejudices occupy thy mind like the strong keeper
of the house mentioned in Scripture. But there shall come a stronger than
he, and make forcible entry, displaying on the battlements that sign of
faith in which alone there is found salvation.—Watch, hope, and
pray, that the hour may come."

There was a pause in the conversation, which was first broken by Peveril.
"You have spoken to me in riddles, Major Bridgenorth; and I have asked you
for no explanation. Listen to a caution on my part, given with the most
sincere good-will. Take a hint from me, and believe it, though it is
darkly expressed. You are here—at least are believed to be here—on
an errand dangerous to the Lord of the island. That danger will be
retorted on yourself, if you make Man long your place of residence. Be
warned, and depart in time."

"And leave my daughter to the guardianship of Julian Peveril! Runs not
your counsel so, young man?" answered Bridgenorth. "Trust my safety,
Julian, to my own prudence. I have been accustomed to guide myself through
worse dangers than now environ me. But I thank you for your caution, which
I am willing to believe was at least partly disinterested."

"We do not, then, part in anger?" said Peveril.

"Not in anger, my son," said Bridgenorth, "but in love and strong
affection. For my daughter, thou must forbear every thought of seeing her,
save through me. I accept not thy suit, neither do I reject it; only this
I intimate to you, that he who would be my son, must first show himself
the true and loving child of his oppressed and deluded country. Farewell;
do not answer me now, thou art yet in the gall of bitterness, and it may
be that strife (which I desire not) should fall between us. Thou shalt
hear of me sooner than thou thinkest for."

He shook Peveril heartily by the hand, and again bid him farewell, leaving
him under the confused and mingled impression of pleasure, doubt, and
wonder. Not a little surprised to find himself so far in the good graces
of Alice's father, that his suit was even favoured with a sort of negative
encouragement, he could not help suspecting, as well from the language of
the daughter as of the father, that Bridgenorth was desirous, as the price
of his favour, that he should adopt some line of conduct inconsistent with
the principles in which he had been educated.

"You need not fear, Alice," he said in his heart; "not even your hand
would I purchase by aught which resembled unworthy or truckling compliance
with tenets which my heart disowns; and well I know, were I mean enough to
do so, even the authority of thy father were insufficient to compel thee
to the ratification of so mean a bargain. But let me hope better things.
Bridgenorth, though strong-minded and sagacious, is haunted by the fears
of Popery, which are the bugbears of his sect. My residence in the family
of the Countess of Derby is more than enough to inspire him with
suspicions of my faith, from which, thank Heaven, I can vindicate myself
with truth and a good conscience."

So thinking, he again adjusted the girths of his palfrey, replaced the bit
which he had slipped out of its mouth, that it might feed at liberty, and
mounting, pursued his way back to the Castle of Holm-Peel, where he could
not help fearing that something extraordinary might have happened in his
absence.

But the old pile soon rose before him, serene, and sternly still, amid the
sleeping ocean. The banner, which indicated that the Lord of Man held
residence within its ruinous precincts, hung motionless by the
ensign-staff. The sentinels walked to and fro on their posts, and hummed
or whistled their Manx airs. Leaving his faithful companion, Fairy, in the
village as before, Julian entered the Castle, and found all within in the
same state of quietness and good order which external appearances had
announced.

CHAPTER XVIII

Now rede me, rede me, brother dear,
Throughout Merry England,
Where will I find a messenger,
Betwixt us two to send.
—BALLAD OF KING ESTMERE.

Julian's first encounter, after re-entering the Castle, was with its young
Lord, who received him with his usual kindness and lightness of humour.

"Thrice welcome, Sir Knight of Dames," said the Earl; "here you rove
gallantly, and at free will, through our dominions, fulfilling of
appointments, and achieving amorous adventures; while we are condemned to
sit in our royal halls, as dull and as immovable as if our Majesty was
carved on the stern of some Manx smuggling dogger, and christened the King
Arthur of Ramsey."

"Nay, in that case you would take the sea," said Julian, "and so enjoy
travel and adventure enough."

"Oh, but suppose me wind-bound, or detained in harbour by a revenue pink,
or ashore, if you like it, and lying high and dry upon the sand. Imagine
the royal image in the dullest of all predicaments, and you have not
equalled mine."

"I am happy to hear, at least, that you have had no disagreeable
employment," said Julian; "the morning's alarm has blown over, I suppose?"

"In faith it has, Julian; and our close inquiries cannot find any cause
for the apprehended insurrection. That Bridgenorth is in the island seems
certain; but private affairs of consequence are alleged as the cause of
his visit; and I am not desirous to have him arrested unless I could prove
some malpractices against him and his companions. In fact, it would seem
we had taken the alarm too soon. My mother speaks of consulting you on the
subject, Julian; and I will not anticipate her solemn communication. It
will be partly apologetical, I suppose; for we begin to think our retreat
rather unroyal, and that, like the wicked, we have fled when no man
pursued. This idea afflicts my mother, who, as a Queen-Dowager, a
Queen-Regent, a heroine, and a woman in general, would be extremely
mortified to think that her precipitate retreat hither had exposed her to
the ridicule of the islanders; and she is disconcerted and out of humour
accordingly. In the meanwhile, my sole amusement has been the grimaces and
fantastic gestures of that ape Fenella, who is more out of humour, and
more absurd, in consequence, than you ever saw her. Morris says, it is
because you pushed her downstairs, Julian—how is that?"

"Nay, Morris has misreported me," answered Julian; "I did but lift her up
stairs to be rid of her importunity; for she chose, in her way, to contest
my going abroad in such an obstinate manner, that I had no other mode of
getting rid of her."

"She must have supposed your departure, at a moment so critical, was
dangerous to the state of our garrison," answered the Earl; "it shows how
dearly she esteems my mother's safety, how highly she rates your prowess.
But, thank Heaven, there sounds the dinner-bell. I would the philosophers,
who find a sin and waste of time in good cheer, could devise us any
pastime half so agreeable."

The meal which the young Earl had thus longed for, as a means of consuming
a portion of the time which hung heavy on his hands, was soon over; as
soon, at least, as the habitual and stately formality of the Countess's
household permitted. She herself, accompanied by her gentlewomen and
attendants, retired early after the tables were drawn; and the young
gentlemen were left to their own company. Wine had, for the moment, no
charms for either; for the Earl was out of spirits from ennui, and
impatience of his monotonous and solitary course of life; and the events
of the day had given Peveril too much matter for reflection, to permit his
starting amusing or interesting topics of conversation. After having
passed the flask in silence betwixt them once or twice, they withdrew each
to a separate embrasure of the windows of the dining apartment, which,
such was the extreme thickness of the wall, were deep enough to afford a
solitary recess, separated, as it were, from the chamber itself. In one of
these sat the Earl of Derby, busied in looking over some of the new
publications which had been forwarded from London; and at intervals
confessing how little power or interest these had for him, by yawning
fearfully as he looked out on the solitary expanse of waters, which, save
from the flight of a flock of sea-gulls, or a solitary cormorant, offered
so little of variety to engage his attention.

Peveril, on his part, held a pamphlet also in his hand, without giving, or
affecting to give it, even his occasional attention. His whole soul turned
upon the interview which he had had that day with Alice Bridgenorth, and
with her father; while he in vain endeavoured to form any hypothesis which
could explain to him why the daughter, to whom he had no reason to think
himself indifferent, should have been so suddenly desirous of their
eternal separation, while her father, whose opposition he so much dreaded,
seemed to be at least tolerant of his addresses. He could only suppose, in
explanation, that Major Bridgenorth had some plan in prospect, which it
was in his own power to farther or to impede; while, from the demeanour,
and indeed the language, of Alice, he had but too much reason to apprehend
that her father's favour could only be conciliated by something, on his
own part, approaching to dereliction of principle. But by no conjecture
which he could form, could he make the least guess concerning the nature
of that compliance, of which Bridgenorth seemed desirous. He could not
imagine, notwithstanding Alice had spoken of treachery, that her father
would dare to propose to him uniting in any plan by which the safety of
the Countess, or the security of her little kingdom of Man, was to be
endangered. This carried such indelible disgrace in the front, that he
could not suppose the scheme proposed to him by any who was not prepared
to defend with his sword, upon the spot, so flagrant an insult offered to
his honour. And such a proceeding was totally inconsistent with the
conduct of Major Bridgenorth in every other respect, besides his being too
calm and cold-blooded to permit of his putting a mortal affront upon the
son of his old neighbour, to whose mother he confessed so much of
obligation.

While Peveril in vain endeavoured to extract something like a probable
theory out of the hints thrown out by the father and by the daughter—not
without the additional and lover-like labour of endeavouring to reconcile
his passion to his honour and conscience—he felt something gently
pull him by the cloak. He unclasped his arms, which, in meditation, had
been folded on his bosom; and withdrawing his eyes from the vacant
prospect of sea-coast and sea which they perused, without much
consciousness upon what they rested, he beheld beside him the little dumb
maiden, the elfin Fenella. She was seated on a low cushion or stool, with
which she had nestled close to Peveril's side, and had remained there for
a short space of time, expecting, no doubt, he would become conscious of
her presence; until, tired of remaining unnoticed, she at length solicited
his attention in the manner which we have described. Startled out of his
reverie by this intimation of her presence, he looked down, and could not,
without interest, behold this singular and helpless being.

Her hair was unloosened, and streamed over her shoulders in such length,
that much of it lay upon the ground, and in such quantity, that it formed
a dark veil, or shadow, not only around her face, but over her whole
slender and minute form. From the profusion of her tresses looked forth
her small and dark, but well-formed features, together with the large and
brilliant black eyes; and her whole countenance was composed into the
imploring look of one who is doubtful of the reception she is about to
meet with from a valued friend, while she confesses a fault, pleads an
apology, or solicits a reconciliation. In short, the whole face was so
much alive with expression, that Julian, though her aspect was so familiar
to him, could hardly persuade himself but that her countenance was
entirely new. The wild, fantastic, elvish vivacity of the features, seemed
totally vanished, and had given place to a sorrowful, tender, and pathetic
cast of countenance, aided by the expression of the large dark eyes,
which, as they were turned up towards Julian, glistened with moisture,
that, nevertheless, did not overflow the eyelids.

Conceiving that her unwonted manner arose from a recollection of the
dispute which had taken place betwixt them in the morning, Peveril was
anxious to restore the little maiden's gaiety, by making her sensible that
there dwelt on his mind no unpleasing recollection of their quarrel. He
smiled kindly, and shook her hand in one of his; while, with the
familiarity of one who had known her from childhood, he stroked down her
long dark tresses with the other. She stooped her head, as if ashamed,
and, at the same time, gratified with his caresses—and he was thus
induced to continue them, until, under the veil of her rich and abundant
locks, he suddenly felt his other hand, which she still held in hers,
slightly touched with her lips, and, at the same time, moistened with a
tear.

At once, and for the first time in his life, the danger of being
misinterpreted in his familiarity with a creature to whom the usual modes
of explanation were a blank, occurred to Julian's mind; and, hastily
withdrawing his hand, and changing his posture, he asked her, by a sign
which custom had rendered familiar, whether she brought any message to him
from the Countess. She started up, and arranged herself in her seat with
the rapidity of lightning; and, at the same moment, with one turn of her
hand, braided her length of locks into a natural head-dress of the most
beautiful kind. There was, indeed, when she looked up, a blush still
visible on her dark features; but their melancholy and languid expression
had given place to that of wild and restless vivacity, which was most
common to them. Her eyes gleamed with more than their wonted fire, and her
glances were more piercingly wild and unsettled than usual. To Julian's
inquiry, she answered, by laying her hand on her heart—a motion by
which she always indicated the Countess—and rising, and taking the
direction of her apartment, she made a sign to Julian to follow her.

The distance was not great betwixt the dining apartment and that to which
Peveril now followed his mute guide; yet, in going thither, he had time
enough to suffer cruelly from the sudden suspicion, that this unhappy girl
had misinterpreted the uniform kindness with which he had treated her, and
hence come to regard him with feelings more tender than those which belong
to friendship. The misery which such a passion was likely to occasion to a
creature in her helpless situation, and actuated by such lively feelings,
was great enough to make him refuse credit to the suspicion which pressed
itself upon his mind; while, at the same time, he formed the internal
resolution so to conduct himself towards Fenella, as to check such
misplaced sentiments, if indeed she unhappily entertained them towards
him.

When they reached the Countess's apartment, they found her with writing
implements, and many sealed letters before her. She received Julian with
her usual kindness; and having caused him to be seated, beckoned to the
mute to resume her needle. In an instant Fenella was seated at an
embroidering-frame; where, but for the movement of her dexterous fingers,
she might have seemed a statue, so little did she move from her work
either head or eye. As her infirmity rendered her presence no bar to the
most confidential conversation, the Countess proceeded to address Peveril
as if they had been literally alone together.

"Julian," she said, "I am not now about to complain to you of the
sentiments and conduct of Derby. He is your friend—he is my son. He
has kindness of heart and vivacity of talent; and yet——"

"Dearest lady," said Peveril, "why will you distress yourself with fixing
your eye on deficiencies which arise rather from a change of times and
manners, than any degeneracy of my noble friend? Let him be once engaged
in his duty, whether in peace or war, and let me pay the penalty if he
acquits not himself becoming his high station."

"Ay," replied the Countess; "but when will the call of duty prove superior
to that of the most idle or trivial indulgence which can serve to drive
over the lazy hour? His father was of another mould; and how often was it
my lot to entreat that he would spare, from the rigid discharge of those
duties which his high station imposed, the relaxation absolutely necessary
to recruit his health and his spirits!"

"Still, my dearest lady," said Peveril, "you must allow, that the duties
to which the times summoned your late honoured lord, were of a more
stirring, as well as a more peremptory cast, than those which await your
son."

"I know not that," said the Countess. "The wheel appears to be again
revolving; and the present period is not unlikely to bring back such
scenes as my young years witnessed.—Well, be it so; they will not
find Charlotte de la Tremouille broken in spirit, though depressed by
years. It was even on this subject I would speak with you, my young
friend. Since our first early acquaintance—when I saw your gallant
behaviour as I issued forth to your childish eye, like an apparition, from
my place of concealment in your father's castle—it has pleased me to
think you a true son of Stanley and Peveril. I trust your nurture in this
family has been ever suited to the esteem in which I hold you.—Nay,
I desire no thanks.—I have to require of you, in return, a piece of
service, not perhaps entirely safe to yourself, but which, as times are
circumstanced, no person is so well able to render to my house."

"You have been ever my good and noble lady," answered Peveril, "as well as
my kind, and I may say maternal, protectress. You have a right to command
the blood of Stanley in the veins of every one—You have a thousand
rights to command it in mine."[*]

[*] The reader cannot have forgotten that the Earl of Derby was head
of the great house of Stanley.

"My advices from England," said the Countess, "resemble more the dreams of
a sick man, than the regular information which I might have expected from
such correspondents as mine;—their expressions are like those of men
who walk in their sleep, and speak by snatches of what passes in their
dreams. It is said, a plot, real or fictitious, has been detected among
the Catholics, which has spread far wider and more uncontrollable terror
than that of the fifth of November. Its outlines seem utterly incredible,
and are only supported by the evidence of wretches, the meanest and most
worthless in the creation; yet it is received by the credulous people of
England with the most undoubting belief."

"This is a singular delusion, to rise without some real ground," answered
Julian.

"I am no bigot, cousin, though a Catholic," replied the Countess. "I have
long feared that the well-meant zeal of our priests for increasing
converts, would draw on them the suspicion of the English nation. These
efforts have been renewed with double energy since the Duke of York
conformed to the Catholic faith; and the same event has doubled the hate
and jealousy of the Protestants. So far, I fear, there may be just cause
of suspicion, that the Duke is a better Catholic than an Englishman, and
that bigotry has involved him, as avarice, or the needy greed of a
prodigal, has engaged his brother, in relations with France, whereof
England may have too much reason to complain. But the gross, thick, and
palpable fabrications of conspiracy and murder, blood and fire—the
imaginary armies—the intended massacres—form a collection of
falsehoods, that one would have thought indigestible, even by the coarse
appetite of the vulgar for the marvellous and horrible; but which are,
nevertheless, received as truth by both Houses of Parliament, and
questioned by no one who is desirous to escape the odious appellation of
friend to the bloody Papists, and favourer of their infernal schemes of
cruelty."

"But what say those who are most likely to be affected by these wild
reports?" said Julian. "What say the English Catholics themselves?—a
numerous and wealthy body, comprising so many noble names?"

"Their hearts are dead within them," said the Countess. "They are like
sheep penned up in the shambles, that the butcher may take his choice
among them. In the obscure and brief communications which I have had by a
secure hand, they do but anticipate their own utter ruin, and ours—so
general is the depression, so universal the despair."

"But the King," said Peveril,—"the King and the Protestant Royalists—what
say they to this growing tempest?"

"Charles," replied the Countess, "with his usual selfish prudence,
truckles to the storm; and will let cord and axe do their work on the most
innocent men in his dominions, rather than lose an hour of pleasure in
attempting their rescue. And, for the Royalists, either they have caught
the general delirium which has seized on Protestants in general, or they
stand aloof and neutral, afraid to show any interest in the unhappy
Catholics, lest they be judged altogether such as themselves, and abettors
of the fearful conspiracy in which they are alleged to be engaged. In
fact, I cannot blame them. It is hard to expect that mere compassion for a
persecuted sect—or, what is yet more rare, an abstract love of
justice—should be powerful enough to engage men to expose themselves
to the awakened fury of a whole people; for, in the present state of
general agitation, whoever disbelieves the least tittle of the enormous
improbabilities which have been accumulated by these wretched reformers,
is instantly hunted down, as one who would smother the discovery of the
Plot. It is indeed an awful tempest; and, remote as we lie from its
sphere, we must expect soon to feel its effects."

"Lord Derby already told me something of this," said Julian; "and that
there were agents in this island whose object was to excite insurrection."

"Yes," answered the Countess, and her eye flashed fire as she spoke; "and
had my advice been listened to, they had been apprehended in the very
fact; and so dealt with, as to be a warning to all others how they sought
this independent principality on such an errand. But my son, who is
generally so culpably negligent of his own affairs, was pleased to assume
the management of them upon this crisis."

"I am happy to learn, madam," answered Peveril, "that the measures of
precaution which my kinsman has adopted, have had the complete effect of
disconcerting the conspiracy."

"For the present, Julian; but they should have been such as would have
made the boldest tremble to think of such infringement of our rights in
future. But Derby's present plan is fraught with greater danger; and yet
there is something in it of gallantry, which has my sympathy."

"What is it, madam?" inquired Julian anxiously; "and in what can I aid it,
or avert its dangers?"

"He purposes," said the Countess, "instantly to set forth for London. He
is, he says, not merely the feudal chief of a small island, but one of the
noble Peers of England, who must not remain in the security of an obscure
and distant castle, when his name, or that of his mother, is slandered
before his Prince and people. He will take his place, he says, in the
House of Lords, and publicly demand justice for the insult thrown on his
house, by perjured and interested witnesses."

"It is a generous resolution, and worthy of my friend," said Julian
Peveril. "I will go with him and share his fate, be it what it may."

"Alas, foolish boy!" answered the Countess, "as well may you ask a hungry
lion to feel compassion, as a prejudiced and furious people to do justice.
They are like the madman at the height of frenzy, who murders without
compunction his best and dearest friend; and only wonders and wails over
his own cruelty, when he is recovered from his delirium."

"Pardon me, dearest lady," said Julian, "this cannot be. The noble and
generous people of England cannot be thus strangely misled. Whatever
prepossessions may be current among the more vulgar, the House of
Legislature cannot be deeply infected by them—they will remember
their own dignity."

"Alas! cousin," answered the Countess, "when did Englishmen, even of the
highest degree, remember anything, when hurried away by the violence of
party feeling? Even those who have too much sense to believe in the
incredible fictions which gull the multitude, will beware how they expose
them, if their own political party can gain a momentary advantage by their
being accredited. It is amongst such, too, that your kinsman has found
friends and associates. Neglecting the old friends of his house, as too
grave and formal companions for the humour of the times, his intercourse
has been with the versatile Shaftesbury—the mercurial Buckingham—men
who would not hesitate to sacrifice to the popular Moloch of the day,
whatsoever or whomsoever, whose ruin could propitiate the deity.—Forgive
a mother's tears, kinsman; but I see the scaffold at Bolton again erected.
If Derby goes to London while these bloodhounds are in full cry, obnoxious
as he is, and I have made him by my religious faith, and my conduct in
this island, he dies his father's death. And yet upon what other course to
resolve!——"

"Let me go to London, madam," said Peveril, much moved by the distress of
his patroness; "your ladyship was wont to rely something on my judgment. I
will act for the best—will communicate with those whom you point out
to me, and only with them; and I trust soon to send you information that
this delusion, however strong it may now be, is in the course of passing
away; at the worst, I can apprise you of the danger, should it menace the
Earl or yourself; and may be able also to point out the means by which it
may be eluded."

The Countess listened with a countenance in which the anxiety of maternal
affection, which prompted her to embrace Peveril's generous offer,
struggled with her native disinterested and generous disposition. "Think
what you ask of me, Julian," she replied with a sigh. "Would you have me
expose the life of my friend's son to those perils to which I refuse my
own?—No, never!"

"Nay, but madam," replied Julian, "I do not run the same risk—my
person is not known in London—my situation, though not obscure in my
own country, is too little known to be noticed in that huge assemblage of
all that is noble and wealthy. No whisper, I presume, however indirect,
has connected my name with the alleged conspiracy. I am a Protestant,
above all; and can be accused of no intercourse, direct or indirect, with
the Church of Rome. My connections also lie amongst those, who, if they do
not, or cannot, befriend me, cannot, at least, be dangerous to me. In a
word, I run no danger where the Earl might incur great peril."

"Alas!" said the Countess of Derby, "all this generous reasoning may be
true; but it could only be listened to by a widowed mother. Selfish as I
am, I cannot but reflect that my kinswoman has, in all events, the support
of an affectionate husband—such is the interested reasoning to which
we are not ashamed to subject our better feelings."

"Do not call it so, madam," answered Peveril; "think of me as the younger
brother of my kinsman. You have ever done by me the duties of a mother;
and have a right to my filial service, were it at a risk ten times greater
than a journey to London, to inquire into the temper of the times. I will
instantly go and announce my departure to the Earl."

"Stay, Julian," said the Countess; "if you must make this journey in our
behalf,—and, alas! I have not generosity enough to refuse your noble
proffer,—you must go alone, and without communication with Derby. I
know him well; his lightness of mind is free from selfish baseness; and
for the world, would he not suffer you to leave Man without his company.
And if he went with you, your noble and disinterested kindness would be of
no avail—you would but share his ruin, as the swimmer who attempts
to save a drowning man is involved in his fate, if he permit the sufferer
to grapple with him."

"It shall be as you please, madam," said Peveril. "I am ready to depart
upon half-an-hour's notice."

"This night, then," said the Countess, after a moment's pause—"this
night I will arrange the most secret means of carrying your generous
project into effect; for I would not excite that prejudice against you,
which will instantly arise, were it known you had so lately left this
island, and its Popish lady. You will do well, perhaps, to use a feigned
name in London."

"Pardon me, madam," said Julian; "I will do nothing that can draw on me
unnecessary attention; but to bear a feigned name, or affect any disguise
beyond living with extreme privacy, would, I think, be unwise as well as
unworthy; and what, if challenged, I might find some difficulty in
assigning a reason for, consistent with perfect fairness of intentions."

"I believe you are right," answered the Countess, after a moment's
consideration; and then added, "You propose, doubtless, to pass through
Derbyshire, and visit Martindale Castle?"

"Of that," said the Countess, "you must yourself judge. Despatch is,
doubtless, desirable; on the other hand, arriving from your own
family-seat, you will be less an object of doubt and suspicion, than if
you posted up from hence, without even visiting your parents. You must be
guided in this,—in all,—by your own prudence. Go, my dearest
son—for to me you should be dear as a son—go, and prepare for
your journey. I will get ready some despatches, and a supply of money—Nay,
do not object. Am I not your mother; and are you not discharging a son's
duty? Dispute not my right of defraying your expenses. Nor is this all;
for, as I must trust your zeal and prudence to act in our behalf when
occasion shall demand, I will furnish you with effectual recommendations
to our friends and kindred, entreating and enjoining them to render
whatever aid you may require, either for your own protection, or the
advancement of what you may propose in our favour."

Peveril made no farther opposition to an arrangement, which in truth the
moderate state of his own finances rendered almost indispensable, unless
with his father's assistance; and the Countess put into his hand bills of
exchange to the amount of two hundred pounds, upon a merchant in the city.
She then dismissed Julian for the space of an hour; after which, she said,
she must again require his presence.

The preparations for his journey were not of a nature to divert the
thoughts which speedily pressed on him. He found that half-an-hour's
conversation had once more completely changed his immediate prospects and
plans for the future. He had offered to the Countess of Derby a service,
which her uniform kindness had well deserved at his hand; but, by her
accepting it, he was upon the point of being separated from Alice
Bridgenorth, at a time when she was become dearer to him than ever, by her
avowal of mutual passion. Her image rose before him, such as he had that
day pressed her to his bosom—her voice was in his ear, and seemed to
ask whether he could desert her in the crisis which everything seemed to
announce as impending. But Julian Peveril, his youth considered, was
strict in judging his duty, and severely resolved in executing it. He
trusted not his imagination to pursue the vision which presented itself;
but resolutely seizing his pen, wrote to Alice the following letter,
explaining his situation, as far as justice to the Countess permitted him
to do so:—

"I leave you, dearest Alice," thus ran the letter.—"I leave you;
and though, in doing so, I but obey the command you have laid on
me, yet I can claim little merit for my compliance, since, without
additional and most forcible reasons in aid of your orders, I fear
I should have been unable to comply with them. But family affairs
of importance compel me to absent myself from this island, for, I
fear, more than one week. My thoughts, hopes, and wishes will be
on the moment that shall restore me to the Black Fort, and its
lovely valley. Let me hope that yours will sometimes rest on the
lonely exile, whom nothing could render such, but the command of
honour and duty. Do not fear that I mean to involve you in a
private correspondence, and let not your father fear it. I could
not love you so much, but for the openness and candour of your
nature; and I would not that you concealed from Major Bridgenorth
one syllable of what I now avow. Respecting other matters, he
himself cannot desire the welfare of our common country with more
zeal than I do. Differences may occur concerning the mode in which
that is to be obtained; but, in the principle, I am convinced
there can be only one mind between us; nor can I refuse to listen
to his experience and wisdom, even where they may ultimately fail
to convince me. Farewell—Alice, farewell! Much might be added to
that melancholy word, but nothing that could express the
bitterness with which it is written. Yet I could transcribe it
again and again, rather than conclude the last communication which
I can have with you for some time. My sole comfort is, that my
stay will scarce be so long as to permit you to forget one who
never can forget you."

He held the paper in his hand for a minute after he had folded, but before
he had sealed it, while he hurriedly debated in his own mind whether he
had not expressed himself towards Major Bridgenorth in so conciliating a
manner as might excite hopes of proselytism, which his conscience told him
he could not realise with honour. Yet, on the other hand, he had no right,
from what Bridgenorth had said, to conclude that their principles were
diametrically irreconcilable; for though the son of a high Cavalier, and
educated in the family of the Countess of Derby, he was himself, upon
principle, an enemy of prerogative, and a friend to the liberty of the
subject. And with such considerations, he silenced all internal objections
on the point of honour; although his conscience secretly whispered that
these conciliatory expressions towards the father were chiefly dictated by
the fear, that during his absence Major Bridgenorth might be tempted to
change the residence of his daughter, and perhaps to convey her altogether
out of his reach.

Having sealed his letter, Julian called his servant, and directed him to
carry it under cover of one addressed to Mrs. Debbitch, to a house in the
town of Rushin, where packets and messages intended for the family at
Black Fort were usually deposited; and for that purpose to take horse
immediately. He thus got rid of an attendant, who might have been in some
degree a spy on his motions. He then exchanged the dress he usually wore
for one more suited to travelling; and, having put a change or two of
linen into a small cloak-bag, selected as arms a strong double-edged sword
and an excellent pair of pistols, which last he carefully loaded with
double bullets. Thus appointed, and with twenty pieces in his purse, and
the bills we have mentioned secured in a private pocket-book, he was in
readiness to depart as soon as he should receive the Countess's commands.

The buoyant spirit of youth and hope, which had, for a moment, been
chilled by the painful and dubious circumstances in which he was placed,
as well as the deprivation which he was about to undergo, now revived in
full vigour. Fancy, turning from more painful anticipations, suggested to
him that he was now entering upon life, at a crisis when resolution and
talents were almost certain to make the fortune of their possessor. How
could he make a more honourable entry on the bustling scene, than sent by,
and acting in behalf of, one of the noblest houses in England; and should
he perform what his charge might render incumbent with the resolution and
the prudence necessary to secure success, how many occurrences might take
place to render his mediation necessary to Bridgenorth; and thus enable
him, on the most equal and honourable terms, to establish a claim to his
gratitude and to his daughter's hand.

Whilst he was dwelling on such pleasing, though imaginary prospects, he
could not help exclaiming aloud—"Yes, Alice, I will win thee nobly!"
The words had scarce escaped his lips, when he heard at the door of his
apartment, which the servant had left ajar, a sound like a deep sigh,
which was instantly succeeded by a gentle tap—"Come in," replied
Julian, somewhat ashamed of his exclamation, and not a little afraid that
it had been caught up by some eavesdropper—"Come in," he again
repeated; but his command was not obeyed; on the contrary, the knock was
repeated somewhat louder. He opened the door, and Fenella stood before
him.

With eyes that seemed red with recent tears, and with a look of the
deepest dejection, the little mute, first touching her bosom, and
beckoning with her finger, made to him the usual sign that the Countess
desired to see him—then turned, as if to usher him to her apartment.
As he followed her through the long gloomy vaulted passages which afforded
communication betwixt the various apartments of the castle, he could not
but observe that her usual light trip was exchanged for a tardy and
mournful step, which she accompanied with low inarticulate moaning (which
she was probably the less able to suppress, because she could not judge
how far it was audible), and also with wringing of the hands, and other
marks of extreme affliction.

At this moment a thought came across Peveril's mind, which, in spite of
his better reason, made him shudder involuntarily. As a Peaksman, and a
long resident in the Isle of Man, he was well acquainted with many a
superstitious legend, and particularly with a belief, which attached to
the powerful family of the Stanleys, for their peculiar demon, a Banshie,
or female spirit, who was wont to shriek "foreboding evil times;" and who
was generally seen weeping and bemoaning herself before the death of any
person of distinction belonging to the family. For an instant, Julian
could scarcely divest himself of the belief that the wailing, jibbering
form, which glided before him, with a lamp in her hand, was a genius of
his mother's race, come to announce to him as an analogous reflection,
that if the suspicion which had crossed his mind concerning Fenella was a
just one, her ill-fated attachment to him, like that of the prophetic
spirit to his family, could bode nothing but disaster, and lamentation,
and woe.

CHAPTER XIX

Now, hoist the anchor, mates—and let the sails
Give their broad bosom to the buxom wind,
Like lass that woos a lover.
—ANONYMOUS.

The presence of the Countess dispelled the superstitious feeling, which,
for an instant, had encroached on Julian's imagination, and compelled him
to give attention to the matters of ordinary life. "Here are your
credentials," she said, giving him a small packet, carefully packed up in
a sealskin cover; "you had better not open them till you come to London.
You must not be surprised to find that there are one or two addressed to
men of my own persuasion. These, for all our sakes, you will observe
caution in delivering."

"I go your messenger, madam," said Peveril; "and whatever you desire me to
charge myself with, of that I undertake the care. Yet allow me to doubt
whether an intercourse with Catholics will at this moment forward the
purposes of my mission."

"You have caught the general suspicion of this wicked sect already," said
the Countess, smiling, "and are the fitter to go amongst Englishmen in
their present mood. But, my cautious friend, these letters are so
addressed, and the persons to whom they are addressed so disguised, that
you will run no danger in conversing with them. Without their aid, indeed,
you will not be able to obtain the accurate information you go in search
of. None can tell so exactly how the wind sets, as the pilot whose vessel
is exposed to the storm. Besides, though you Protestants deny our
priesthood the harmlessness of the dove, you are ready enough to allow us
a full share of the wisdom of the serpent; in plain terms, their means of
information are extensive, and they are not deficient in the power of
applying it. I therefore wish you to have the benefit of their
intelligence and advice, if possible."

"Whatever you impose upon me as a part of my duty, madam, rely on its
being discharged punctually," answered Peveril. "And, now, as there is
little use in deferring the execution of a purpose when once fixed, let me
know your ladyship's wishes concerning my departure."

"It must be sudden and secret," said the Countess; "the island is full of
spies; and I would not wish that any of them should have notice that an
envoy of mine was about to leave Man for London. Can you be ready to go on
board to-morrow?"

"To-night—this instant if you will," said Julian,—"my little
preparations are complete."

"Be ready, then, in your chamber, at two hours after midnight. I will send
one to summon you, for our secret must be communicated, for the present,
to as few as possible. A foreign sloop is engaged to carry you over; then
make the best of your way to London, by Martindale Castle, or otherwise,
as you find most advisable. When it is necessary to announce your absence,
I will say you are gone to see your parents. But stay—your journey
will be on horseback, of course, from Whitehaven. You have bills of
exchange, it is true; but are you provided with ready money to furnish
yourself with a good horse?"

"I am sufficiently rich, madam," answered Julian; "and good nags are
plenty in Cumberland. There are those among them who know how to come by
them good and cheap."

"Trust not to that," said the Countess. "Here is what will purchase for
you the best horse on the Borders.—Can you be simple enough to
refuse it?" she added, as she pressed on him a heavy purse, which he saw
himself obliged to accept.

"A good horse, Julian," continued the Countess, "and a good sword, next to
a good heart and head, are the accomplishments of a cavalier."

"I kiss your hands, then, madam," said Peveril, "and humbly beg you to
believe, that whatever may fail in my present undertaking, my purpose to
serve you, my noble kinswoman and benefactress, can at least never swerve
or falter."

"I know it, my son, I know it; and may God forgive me if my anxiety for
your friend has sent you on dangers which should have been his! Go—go—May
saints and angels bless you! Fenella shall acquaint him that you sup in
your own apartment. So indeed will I; for to-night I should be unable to
face my son's looks. Little will he thank me for sending you on his
errand; and there will be many to ask, whether it was like the Lady of
Latham to trust her friend's son on the danger which should have been
braved by her own. But oh! Julian, I am now a forlorn widow, whom sorrow
has made selfish!"

"Tush, madam," answered Peveril; "it is more unlike the Lady of Latham to
anticipate dangers which may not exist at all, and to which, if they do
indeed occur, I am less obnoxious than my noble kinsman. Farewell!—All
blessings attend you, madam. Commend me to Derby, and make him my excuses.
I shall expect a summons at two hours after midnight."

They took an affectionate leave of each other; the more affectionate,
indeed, on the part of the Countess, that she could not entirely reconcile
her generous mind to exposing Peveril to danger on her son's behalf; and
Julian betook himself to his solitary apartment.

His servant soon afterwards brought him wine and refreshments; to which,
notwithstanding the various matters he had to occupy his mind, he
contrived to do reasonable justice. But when this needful occupation was
finished, his thoughts began to stream in upon him like a troubled tide—at
once recalling the past, and anticipating the future. It was in vain that
he wrapped himself in his riding cloak, and, lying down on his bed,
endeavoured to compose himself to sleep. The uncertainty of the prospect
before him—the doubt how Bridgenorth might dispose of his daughter
during his absence—the fear that the Major himself might fall into
the power of the vindictive Countess, besides a numerous train of vague
and half-formed apprehensions, agitated his blood, and rendered slumber
impossible. Alternately to recline in the old oaken easy-chair, and listen
to the dashing of the waves under the windows, mingled, as the sound was,
with the scream of the sea-birds; or traverse the apartment with long and
slow steps, pausing occasionally to look out on the sea, slumbering under
the influence of a full moon, which tipped each wave with silver—such
were the only pastimes he could invent, until midnight had passed for one
hour; the next was wasted in anxious expectation of the summons of
departure.

At length it arrived—a tap at his door was followed by a low murmur,
which made him suspect that the Countess had again employed her mute
attendant as the most secure minister of her pleasure on this occasion. He
felt something like impropriety in this selection; and it was with a
feeling of impatience alien to the natural generosity of his temper, that,
when he opened the door, he beheld the dumb maiden standing before him.
The lamp which he held in his hand showed his features distinctly, and
probably made Fenella aware of the expression which animated them. She
cast her large dark eyes mournfully on the ground; and, without again
looking him in the face, made him a signal to follow her. He delayed no
longer than was necessary to secure his pistols in his belt, wrap his
cloak closer around him, and take his small portmanteau under his arm.
Thus accoutred, he followed her out of the Keep, or inhabited part of the
Castle, by a series of obscure passages leading to a postern gate, which
she unlocked with a key, selected from a bundle which she carried at her
girdle.

They now stood in the castle-yard, in the open moonlight, which glimmered
white and ghastly on the variety of strange and ruinous objects to which
we have formerly alluded, and which gave the scene rather the appearance
of some ancient cemetery, than of the interior of a fortification. The
round and elevated tower—the ancient mount, with its quadrangular
sides facing the ruinous edifices which once boasted the name of Cathedral—seemed
of yet more antique and anomalous form, when seen by the pale light which
now displayed them. To one of these churches Fenella took the direct
course, and was followed by Julian; although he at once divined, and was
superstitious enough to dislike, the path which she was about to adopt. It
was by a secret passage through this church that in former times the
guard-room of the garrison, situated at the lower and external defences,
communicated with the Keep of the Castle; and through this passage were
the keys of the Castle every night carried to the Governor's apartment, so
soon as the gates were locked, and the watch set. The custom was given up
in James the First's time, and the passage abandoned, on account of the
well-known legend of the Mauthe Dog—a fiend, or demon, in the
shape of a large, shaggy, black mastiff, by which the church was said to
be haunted. It was devoutly believed, that in former times this spectre
became so familiar with mankind, as to appear nightly in the guard-room,
issuing from the passage which we have mentioned at night, and retiring to
it at daybreak. The soldiers became partly familiarised to its presence;
yet not so much so as to use any licence of language while the apparition
was visible; until one fellow, rendered daring by intoxication, swore he
would know whether it was dog or devil, and, with his drawn sword,
followed the spectre when it retreated by the usual passage. The man
returned in a few minutes, sobered by terror, his mouth gaping, and his
hair standing on end, under which horror he died; but, unhappily for the
lovers of the marvellous, altogether unable to disclose the horrors which
he had seen. Under the evil repute arising from this tale of wonder, the
guard-room was abandoned, and a new one constructed. In like manner, the
guards after that period held another and more circuitous communication
with the Governor or Seneschal of the Castle; and that which lay through
the ruinous church was entirely abandoned.

In defiance of the legendary terrors which tradition had attached to the
original communication, Fenella, followed by Peveril, now boldly traversed
the ruinous vaults through which it lay—sometimes only guided over
heaps of ruins by the precarious light of the lamp borne by the dumb
maiden—sometimes having the advantage of a gleam of moonlight,
darting into the dreary abyss through the shafted windows, or through
breaches made by time. As the path was by no means a straight one, Peveril
could not but admire the intimate acquaintance with the mazes which his
singular companion displayed, as well as the boldness with which she
traversed them. He himself was not so utterly void of the prejudices of
the times, but that he contemplated, with some apprehension, the
possibility of their intruding on the lair of the phantom hound, of which
he had heard so often; and in every remote sight of the breeze among the
ruins, he thought he heard him baying at the mortal footsteps which
disturbed his gloomy realm. No such terrors, however, interrupted their
journey; and in the course of a few minutes, they attained the deserted
and now ruinous guard-house. The broken walls of the little edifice served
to conceal them from the sentinels, one of whom was keeping a drowsy watch
at the lower gate of the Castle; whilst another, seated on the stone steps
which communicated with the parapet of the bounding and exterior wall, was
slumbering, in full security, with his musket peacefully grounded by his
side. Fenella made a sign to Peveril to move with silence and caution, and
then showed him, to his surprise, from the window of the deserted
guard-room, a boat, for it was now high water, with four rowers, lurking
under the cliff on which the castle was built; and made him farther
sensible that he was to have access to it by a ladder of considerable
height placed at the window of the ruin.

Julian was both displeased and alarmed by the security and carelessness of
the sentinels, who had suffered such preparations to be made without
observation or alarm given; and he hesitated whether he should not call
the officer of the guard, upbraid him with negligence, and show him how
easily Holm-Peel, in spite of its natural strength, and although reported
impregnable, might be surprised by a few resolute men. Fenella seemed to
guess his thoughts with that extreme acuteness of observation which her
deprivations had occasioned her acquiring. She laid one hand on his arm,
and a finger of the other on her own lips, as if to enjoin forbearance;
and Julian, knowing that she acted by the direct authority of the
Countess, obeyed her accordingly; but with the internal resolution to lose
no time in communicating his sentiments to the Earl, concerning the danger
to which the Castle was exposed on this point.

In the meantime, he descended the ladder with some precaution, for the
steps were unequal, broken, wet, and slippery; and having placed himself
in the stern of the boat, made a signal to the men to push off, and turned
to take farewell of his guide. To his utter astonishment, Fenella rather
slid down, than descended regularly, the perilous ladder, and, the boat
being already pushed off, made a spring from the last step of it with
incredible agility, and seated herself beside Peveril, ere he could
express either remonstrance or surprise. He commanded the men once more to
pull in to the precarious landing-place; and throwing into his countenance
a part of the displeasure which he really felt, endeavoured to make her
comprehend the necessity of returning to her mistress. Fenella folded her
arms, and looked at him with a haughty smile, which completely expressed
the determination of her purpose. Peveril was extremely embarrassed; he
was afraid of offending the Countess, and interfering with her plan, by
giving alarm, which otherwise he was much tempted to have done. On
Fenella, it was evident, no species of argument which he could employ was
likely to make the least impression; and the question remained, how, if
she went on with him, he was to rid himself of so singular and
inconvenient a companion, and provide, at the same time, sufficiently for
her personal security.

The boatmen brought the matter to a decision; for, after lying on their
oars for a minute, and whispering among themselves in Low Dutch or German,
they began to pull stoutly, and were soon at some distance from the
Castle. The possibility of the sentinels sending a musket-ball, or even a
cannon-shot, after them, was one of the contingencies which gave Peveril
momentary anxiety; but they left the fortress, as they must have
approached it, unnoticed, or at least unchallenged—a carelessness on
the part of the garrison, which, notwithstanding that the oars were
muffled, and that the men spoke little, and in whispers, argued, in
Peveril's opinion, great negligence on the part of the sentinels. When
they were a little way from the Castle, the men began to row briskly
towards a small vessel which lay at some distance. Peveril had, in the
meantime, leisure to remark, that the boatmen spoke to each other
doubtfully, and bent anxious looks on Fenella, as if uncertain whether
they had acted properly in bringing her off.

After about a quarter of an hour's rowing, they reached the little sloop,
where Peveril was received by the skipper, or captain, on the
quarter-deck, with an offer of spirits or refreshments. A word or two
among the seamen withdrew the captain from his hospitable cares, and he
flew to the ship's side, apparently to prevent Fenella from entering the
vessel. The men and he talked eagerly in Dutch, looking anxiously at
Fenella as they spoke together; and Peveril hoped the result would be,
that the poor woman should be sent ashore again. But she baffled whatever
opposition could be offered to her; and when the accommodation-ladder, as
it is called, was withdrawn, she snatched the end of a rope, and climbed
on board with the dexterity of a sailor, leaving them no means of
preventing her entrance, save by actual violence, to which apparently they
did not choose to have recourse. Once on deck, she took the captain by the
sleeve, and led him to the head of the vessel, where they seemed to hold
intercourse in a manner intelligible to both.

Peveril soon forgot the presence of the mute, as he began to muse upon his
own situation, and the probability that he was separated for some
considerable time from the object of his affections. "Constancy," he
repeated to himself,—"Constancy." And, as if in coincidence with the
theme of his reflections, he fixed his eyes on the polar star, which that
night twinkled with more than ordinary brilliancy. Emblem of pure passion
and steady purpose—the thoughts which arose as he viewed its clear
and unchanging light, were disinterested and noble. To seek his country's
welfare, and secure the blessings of domestic peace—to discharge a
bold and perilous duty to his friend and patron—to regard his
passion for Alice Bridgenorth, as the loadstar which was to guide him to
noble deeds—were the resolutions which thronged upon his mind, and
which exalted his spirits to that state of romantic melancholy, which
perhaps is ill exchanged even for feelings of joyful rapture.

He was recalled from those contemplations by something which nestled
itself softly and closely to his side—a woman's sigh sounded so near
him, as to disturb his reverie; and as he turned his head, he saw Fenella
seated beside him, with her eyes fixed on the same star which had just
occupied his own. His first emotion was that of displeasure; but it was
impossible to persevere in it towards a being so helpless in many
respects, so interesting in others; whose large dark eyes were filled with
dew, which glistened in the moonlight; and the source of whose emotions
seemed to be in a partiality which might well claim indulgence, at least
from him who was the object of it. At the same time, Julian resolved to
seize the present opportunity, for such expostulations with Fenella on the
strangeness of her conduct, as the poor maiden might be able to
comprehend. He took her hand with great kindness, but at the same time
with much gravity, pointed to the boat, and to the Castle, whose towers
and extended walls were now scarce visible in the distance; and thus
intimated to her the necessity of her return to Holm-Peel. She looked
down, and shook her head, as if negativing his proposal with obstinate
decision. Julian renewed his expostulation by look and gesture—pointed
to his own heart, to intimate the Countess—and bent his brows, to
show the displeasure which she must entertain. To all which the maiden
only answered by her tears.

At length, as if driven to explanation by his continued remonstrances, she
suddenly seized him by the arm, to arrest his attention—cast her eye
hastily around, as if to see whether she was watched by any one—then
drew the other hand, edge-wise, across her slender throat—pointed to
the boat, and to the Castle, and nodded.

On this series of signs, Peveril could put no interpretation, excepting
that he was menaced with some personal danger, from which Fenella seemed
to conceive that her presence was a protection. Whatever was her meaning,
her purpose seemed unalterably adopted; at least it was plain he had no
power to shake it. He must therefore wait till the end of their short
voyage, to disembarrass himself of his companion; and, in the meanwhile,
acting on the idea of her having harboured a misplaced attachment to him,
he thought he should best consult her interest, and his own character, in
keeping at as great a distance from her as circumstances admitted. With
this purpose, he made the sign she used for going to sleep, by leaning his
head on his palm; and having thus recommended to her to go to rest, he
himself desired to be conducted to his berth.

The captain readily showed him a hammock, in the after-cabin, into which
he threw himself, to seek that repose which the exercise and agitation of
the preceding day, as well as the lateness of the hour, made him now feel
desirable. Sleep, deep and heavy, sunk down on him in a few minutes, but
it did not endure long. In his sleep he was disturbed by female cries; and
at length, as he thought, distinctly heard the voice of Alice Bridgenorth
call on his name.

He awoke, and starting up to quit his bed, became sensible, from the
motion of the vessel, and the swinging of the hammock, that his dream had
deceived him. He was still startled by its extreme vivacity and
liveliness. "Julian Peveril, help! Julian Peveril!" The sounds still rung
in his ears—the accents were those of Alice—and he could
scarce persuade himself that his imagination had deceived him. Could she
be in the same vessel? The thought was not altogether inconsistent with
her father's character, and the intrigues in which he was engaged; but
then, if so, to what peril was she exposed, that she invoked his name so
loudly?

Determined to make instant inquiry, he jumped out of his hammock,
half-dressed as he was, and stumbling about the little cabin, which was as
dark as pitch, at length, with considerable difficulty, reached the door.
The door, however, he was altogether unable to open; and was obliged to
call loudly to the watch upon deck. The skipper, or captain, as he was
called, being the only person aboard who could speak English, answered to
the summons, and replied to Peveril's demand, what noise that was?—that
a boat was going off with the young woman—that she whimpered a
little as she left the vessel—and "dat vaas all."

His dream was thus fully explained. Fancy had caught up the inarticulate
and vehement cries with which Fenella was wont to express resistance or
displeasure—had coined them into language, and given them the
accents of Alice Bridgenorth. Our imagination plays wilder tricks with us
almost every night.

The captain now undid the door, and appeared with a lantern; without the
aid of which Peveril could scarce have regained his couch, where he now
slumbered secure and sound, until day was far advanced, and the invitation
of the captain called him up to breakfast.

CHAPTER XX

Now, what is this that haunts me like my shadow,
Frisking and mumming like an elf in moonlight!
—BEN JONSON.

Peveril found the master of the vessel rather less rude than those in his
station of life usually are, and received from him full satisfaction
concerning the fate of Fenella, upon whom the captain bestowed a hearty
curse, for obliging him to lay-to until he had sent his boat ashore, and
had her back again.

"I hope," said Peveril, "no violence was necessary to reconcile her to go
ashore? I trust she offered no foolish resistance?"

"Resist! mein Gott," said the captain, "she did resist like a troop of
horse—she did cry, you might hear her at Whitehaven—she did go
up the rigging like a cat up a chimney; but dat vas ein trick of her old
trade."

"What trade do you mean?" said Peveril.

"Oh," said the seaman, "I vas know more about her than you, Meinheer. I
vas know that she vas a little, very little girl, and prentice to one
seiltanzer, when my lady yonder had the good luck to buy her."

"A seiltanzer!" said Peveril; "what do you mean by that?"

"I mean a rope-danzer, a mountebank, a Hans pickel-harring. I vas know
Adrian Brackel vell—he sell de powders dat empty men's stomach, and
fill him's own purse. Not know Adrian Brackel, mein Gott! I have smoked
many a pound of tabak with him."

Peveril now remembered that Fenella had been brought into the family when
he and the young Earl were in England, and while the Countess was absent
on an expedition to the continent. Where the Countess found her, she never
communicated to the young men; but only intimated, that she had received
her out of compassion, in order to relieve her from a situation of extreme
distress.

He hinted so much to the communicative seaman, who replied, "that for
distress he knew nocht's on't; only, that Adrian Brackel beat her when she
would not dance on the rope, and starved her when she did, to prevent her
growth." The bargain between the countess and the mountebank, he said, he
had made himself; because the Countess had hired his brig upon her
expedition to the continent. None else knew where she came from. The
Countess had seen her on a public stage at Ostend—compassionated her
helpless situation, and the severe treatment she received—and had
employed him to purchase the poor creature from her master, and charged
him with silence towards all her retinue.—"And so I do keep
silence," continued the faithful confidant, "van I am in the havens of
Man; but when I am on the broad seas, den my tongue is mine own, you know.
Die foolish beoples in the island, they say she is a wechsel-balg—what
you call a fairy-elf changeling. My faith, they do not never have seen ein
wechsel-balg; for I saw one myself at Cologne, and it was twice as big as
yonder girl, and did break the poor people, with eating them up, like de
great big cuckoo in the sparrow's nest; but this Venella eat no more than
other girls—it was no wechsel-balg in the world."

By a different train of reasoning, Julian had arrived at the same
conclusion; in which, therefore, he heartily acquiesced. During the
seaman's prosing, he was reflecting within himself, how much of the
singular flexibility of her limbs and movements the unfortunate girl must
have derived from the discipline and instructions of Adrian Brackel; and
also how far the germs of her wilful and capricious passions might have
been sown during her wandering and adventurous childhood. Aristocratic,
also, as his education had been, these anecdotes respecting Fenella's
original situation and education, rather increased his pleasure of having
shaken off her company; and yet he still felt desirous to know any farther
particulars which the seaman could communicate on the same subject. But he
had already told all he knew. Of her parents he knew nothing, except that
"her father must have been a damned hundsfoot, and a schelm, for selling
his own flesh and blood to Adrian Brackel;" for by such a transaction had
the mountebank become possessed of his pupil.

This conversation tended to remove any passing doubts which might have
crept on Peveril's mind concerning the fidelity of the master of the
vessel, who appeared from thence to have been a former acquaintance of the
Countess, and to have enjoyed some share of her confidence. The
threatening motion used by Fenella, he no longer considered as worthy of
any notice, excepting as a new mark of the irritability of her temper.

He amused himself with walking the deck, and musing on his past and future
prospects, until his attention was forcibly arrested by the wind, which
began to rise in gusts from the north-west, in a manner so unfavourable to
the course they intended to hold, that the master, after many efforts to
beat against it, declared his bark, which was by no means an excellent
sea-boat, was unequal to making Whitehaven; and that he was compelled to
make a fair wind of it, and run for Liverpool. To this course Peveril did
not object. It saved him some land journey, in case he visited his
father's castle; and the Countess's commission would be discharged as
effectually the one way as the other.

The vessel was put, accordingly, before the wind, and ran with great
steadiness and velocity. The captain, notwithstanding, pleading some
nautical hazards, chose to lie off, and did not attempt the mouth of the
Mersey until morning, when Peveril had at length the satisfaction of being
landed upon the quay of Liverpool, which even then showed symptoms of the
commercial prosperity that has since been carried to such a height.

The master, who was well acquainted with the port, pointed out to Julian a
decent place of entertainment, chiefly frequented by seafaring people;
for, although he had been in the town formerly, he did not think it proper
to go anywhere at present where he might have been unnecessarily
recognised. Here he took leave of the seaman, after pressing upon him with
difficulty a small present for his crew. As for his passage, the captain
declined any recompense whatever; and they parted upon the most civil
terms.

The inn to which he was recommended was full of strangers, seamen, and
mercantile people, all intent upon their own affairs, and discussing them
with noise and eagerness, peculiar to the business of a thriving seaport.
But although the general clamour of the public room, in which the guests
mixed with each other, related chiefly to their own commercial dealings,
there was a general theme mingling with them, which was alike common and
interesting to all; so that, amidst disputes about freight, tonnage,
demurrage, and such like, were heard the emphatic sounds of "Deep,
damnable, accursed plot,"—"Bloody Papist villains,"—"The King
in danger—the gallows too good for them," and so forth.

The fermentation excited in London had plainly reached even this remote
seaport, and was received by the inhabitants with the peculiar stormy
energy which invests men in their situation with the character of the
winds and waves with which they are chiefly conversant. The commercial and
nautical interests of England were indeed particularly anti-Catholic;
although it is not, perhaps, easy to give any distinct reason why they
should be so, since theological disputes in general could scarce be
considered as interesting to them. But zeal, amongst the lower orders at
least, is often in an inverse ratio to knowledge; and sailors were not
probably the less earnest and devoted Protestants, that they did not
understand the controversy between the Churches. As for the merchants,
they were almost necessarily inimical to the gentry of Lancashire and
Cheshire; many of whom still retained the faith of Rome, which was
rendered ten times more odious to the men of commerce, as the badge of
their haughty aristocratic neighbours.

From the little which Peveril heard of the sentiments of the people of
Liverpool, he imagined he should act most prudently in leaving the place
as soon as possible, and before any suspicion should arise of his having
any connection with the party which appeared to have become so obnoxious.

In order to accomplish his journey, it was first necessary that he should
purchase a horse; and for this purpose he resolved to have recourse to the
stables of a dealer well known at the time, and who dwelt in the outskirts
of the place; and having obtained directions to his dwelling, he went
thither to provide himself.

Joe Bridlesley's stables exhibited a large choice of good horses; for that
trade was in former days more active than at present. It was an ordinary
thing for a stranger to buy a horse for the purpose of a single journey,
and to sell him, as well as he could, when he had reached the point of his
destination; and hence there was a constant demand, and a corresponding
supply; upon both of which, Bridlesley, and those of his trade, contrived,
doubtless, to make handsome profits.

Julian, who was no despicable horse-jockey, selected for his purpose a
strong well-made horse, about sixteen hands high, and had him led into the
yard, to see whether the paces corresponded with his appearance. As these
also gave perfect satisfaction to the customer, it remained only to settle
the price with Bridlesley; who of course swore his customer had pitched
upon the best horse ever darkened the stable-door, since he had dealt that
way; that no such horses were to be had nowadays, for that the mares were
dead that foaled them; and having named a corresponding price, the usual
haggling commenced betwixt the seller and purchaser, for adjustment of
what the French dealers call le prix juste.

The reader, if he be at all acquainted with this sort of traffic, well
knows it is generally a keen encounter of wits, and attracts the notice of
all the idlers within hearing, who are usually very ready to offer their
opinions, or their evidence. Amongst these, upon the present occasion, was
a thin man, rather less than the ordinary size, and meanly dressed; but
whose interference was in a confident tone, and such as showed himself
master of the subject on which he spoke. The price of the horse being
settled to about fifteen pounds, which was very high for the period, that
of the saddle and bridle had next to be adjusted, and the thin
mean-looking person before-mentioned, found nearly as much to say on this
subject as on the other. As his remarks had a conciliating and obliging
tendency towards the stranger, Peveril concluded he was one of those idle
persons, who, unable or unwilling to supply themselves with the means of
indulgence at their own cost, do not scruple to deserve them at the hands
of others, by a little officious complaisance; and considering that he
might acquire some useful information from such a person, was just about
to offer him the courtesy of a morning draught, when he observed he had
suddenly left the yard. He had scarce remarked this circumstance, before a
party of customers entered the place, whose haughty assumption of
importance claimed the instant attention of Bridlesley, and all his
militia of grooms and stable-boys.

"Three good horses," said the leader of the party, a tall bulky man, whose
breath was drawn full and high, under a consciousness of fat, and of
importance—"three good and able-bodied horses, for the service of
the Commons of England."

Bridlesley said he had some horses which might serve the Speaker himself
at need; but that, to speak Christian truth, he had just sold the best in
his stable to that gentleman present, who, doubtless, would give up the
bargain if the horse was needed for the service of the State.

"You speak well, friend," said the important personage; and advancing to
Julian, demanded, in a very haughty tone, the surrender of the purchase
which he had just made.

Peveril, with some difficulty, subdued the strong desire which he felt to
return a round refusal to so unreasonable a request, but fortunately,
recollecting that the situation in which he at present stood, required, on
his part, much circumspection, he replied simply, that upon showing him
any warrant to seize upon horses for the public service, he must of course
submit to resign his purchase.

The man, with an air of extreme dignity, pulled from his pocket, and
thrust into Peveril's hand, a warrant, subscribed by the Speaker of the
House of Commons, empowering Charles Topham, their officer of the Black
Rod, to pursue and seize upon the persons of certain individuals named in
the warrant; and of all other persons who are, or should be, accused by
competent witnesses, of being accessory to, or favourers of, the hellish
and damnable Popish Plot, at present carried on within the bowels of the
kingdom; and charging all men, as they loved their allegiance, to render
the said Charles Topham their readiest and most effective assistance, in
execution of the duty entrusted to his care.

On perusing a document of such weighty import, Julian had no hesitation to
give up his horse to this formidable functionary; whom somebody compared
to a lion, which, as the House of Commons was pleased to maintain such an
animal, they were under the necessity of providing for by frequent
commitments; until "Take him, Topham," became a proverb, and a
formidable one, in the mouth of the public.

The acquiescence of Peveril procured him some grace in the sight of the
emissary; who, before selecting two horses for his attendants, gave
permission to the stranger to purchase a grey horse, much inferior,
indeed, to that which he had resigned, both in form and in action, but
very little lower in price, as Mr. Bridlesley, immediately on learning the
demand for horses upon the part of the Commons of England, had passed a
private resolution in his own mind, augmenting the price of his whole
stud, by an imposition of at least twenty per cent., ad valorem.

Peveril adjusted and paid the price with much less argument than on the
former occasion; for, to be plain with the reader, he had noticed in the
warrant of Mr. Topham, the name of his father, Sir Geoffrey Peveril of
Martindale Castle, engrossed at full length, as one of those subjected to
arrest by that officer.

When aware of this material fact, it became Julian's business to leave
Liverpool directly, and carry the alarm to Derbyshire, if, indeed, Mr.
Topham had not already executed his charge in that county, which he
thought unlikely, as it was probable they would commence by securing those
who lived nearest to the seaports. A word or two which he overheard
strengthened his hopes.

"And hark ye, friend," said Mr. Topham; "you will have the horses at the
door of Mr. Shortell, the mercer, in two hours, as we shall refresh
ourselves there with a cool tankard, and learn what folks live in the
neighbourhood that may be concerned in my way. And you will please to have
that saddle padded, for I am told the Derbyshire roads are rough.—And
you, Captain Dangerfield, and Master Everett, you must put on your
Protestant spectacles, and show me where there is the shadow of a priest,
or of a priest's favourer; for I am come down with a broom in my cap to
sweep this north country of such like cattle."

One of the persons he thus addressed, who wore the garb of a broken-down
citizen, only answered, "Ay, truly, Master Topham, it is time to purge the
garner."

The other, who had a formidable pair of whiskers, a red nose, and a
tarnished laced coat, together with a hat of Pistol's dimensions, was more
loquacious. "I take it on my damnation," said this zealous Protestant
witness, "that I will discover the marks of the beast on every one of them
betwixt sixteen and seventy, as plainly as if they had crossed themselves
with ink, instead of holy water. Since we have a King willing to do
justice, and a House of Commons to uphold prosecutions, why, damn me, the
cause must not stand still for lack of evidence."

"Stick to that, noble captain," answered the officer; "but, prithee,
reserve thy oaths for the court of justice; it is but sheer waste to throw
them away, as you do in your ordinary conversation."

"Fear you nothing, Master Topham," answered Dangerfield; "it is right to
keep a man's gifts in use; and were I altogether to renounce oaths in my
private discourse, how should I know how to use one when I needed it? But
you hear me use none of your Papist abjurations. I swear not by the mass,
or before George, or by anything that belongs to idolatry; but such
downright oaths as may serve a poor Protestant gentleman, who would fain
serve Heaven and the King."

"Bravely spoken, most noble Festus," said his yoke-fellow. "But do not
suppose, that although I am not in the habit of garnishing my words with
oaths out of season, I shall be wanting, when called upon, to declare the
height and the depth, the width and the length, of this hellish plot
against the King and the Protestant faith."

Dizzy, and almost sick, with listening to the undisguised brutality of
these fellows, Peveril, having with difficulty prevailed on Bridlesley to
settle his purchase, at length led forth his grey steed; but was scarce
out of the yard, when he heard the following alarming conversation pass,
of which he seemed himself the object.

"Who is that youth?" said the slow soft voice of the more precise of the
two witnesses. "Methinks I have seen him somewhere before. Is he from
these parts?"

"Not that I know of," said Bridlesley; who, like all the other inhabitants
of England at the time, answered the interrogatories of these fellows with
the deference which is paid in Spain to the questions of an inquisitor. "A
stranger—entirely a stranger—never saw him before—a wild
young colt, I warrant him; and knows a horse's mouth as well as I do."

"I begin to bethink me I saw such a face as his at the Jesuits' consult,
in the White Horse Tavern," answered Everett.

"And I think I recollect," said Captain Dangerfield——

"Come, come, master and captain," said the authoritative voice of Topham,
"we will have none of your recollections at present. We all know what
these are likely to end in. But I will have you know, you are not to run
till the leash is slipped. The young man is a well-looking lad, and gave
up his horse handsomely for the service of the House of Commons. He knows
how to behave himself to his betters, I warrant you; and I scarce think he
has enough in his purse to pay the fees."

This speech concluded the dialogue, which Peveril, finding himself so much
concerned in the issue, thought it best to hear to an end. Now, when it
ceased, to get out of the town unobserved, and take the nearest way to his
father's castle, seemed his wisest plan. He had settled his reckoning at
the inn, and brought with him to Bridlesley's the small portmanteau which
contained his few necessaries, so that he had no occasion to return
thither. He resolved, therefore, to ride some miles before he stopped,
even for the purpose of feeding his horse; and being pretty well
acquainted with the country, he hoped to be able to push forward to
Martindale Castle sooner than the worshipful Master Topham; whose saddle
was, in the first place, to be padded, and who, when mounted, would, in
all probability, ride with the precaution of those who require such
security against the effects of a hard trot.

Under the influence of these feelings, Julian pushed for Warrington, a
place with which he was well acquainted; but, without halting in the town,
he crossed the Mersey, by the bridge built by an ancestor of his friend
the Earl of Derby, and continued his route towards Dishley, on the borders
of Derbyshire. He might have reached this latter village easily, had his
horse been fitter for a forced march; but in the course of the journey, he
had occasion, more than once, to curse the official dignity of the person
who had robbed him of his better steed, while taking the best direction he
could through a country with which he was only generally acquainted.

At length, near Altringham, a halt became unavoidable; and Peveril had
only to look for some quiet and sequestered place of refreshment. This
presented itself, in the form of a small cluster of cottages; the best of
which united the characters of an alehouse and a mill, where the sign of
the Cat (the landlord's faithful ally in defence of his meal-sacks),
booted as high as Grimalkin in the fairy tale, and playing on the fiddle
for the more grace, announced that John Whitecraft united the two honest
occupations of landlord and miller; and, doubtless, took toll from the
public in both capacities.

Such a place promised a traveller, who journeyed incognito, safer, if not
better accommodation, than he was like to meet with in more frequented
inns; and at the door of the Cat and Fiddle, Julian halted accordingly.

CHAPTER XXI

In these distracted times, when each man dreads
The bloody stratagems of busy hands.
—OTWAY.

At the door of the Cat and Fiddle, Julian received the usual attention
paid to the customers of an inferior house of entertainment. His horse was
carried by a ragged lad, who acted as hostler, into a paltry stable;
where, however, the nag was tolerably supplied with food and litter.

Having seen the animal on which his comfort, perhaps his safety, depended,
properly provided for, Peveril entered the kitchen, which indeed was also
the parlour and hall of the little hostelry, to try what refreshment he
could obtain for himself. Much to his satisfaction, he found there was
only one guest in the house besides himself; but he was less pleased when
he found that he must either go without dinner, or share with that single
guest the only provisions which chanced to be in the house, namely, a dish
of trouts and eels, which their host, the miller, had brought in from his
mill-stream.

At the particular request of Julian, the landlady undertook to add a
substantial dish of eggs and bacon, which perhaps she would not have
undertaken for, had not the sharp eye of Peveril discovered the flitch
hanging in its smoky retreat, when, as its presence could not be denied,
the hostess was compelled to bring it forward as a part of her supplies.

She was a buxom dame about thirty, whose comely and cheerful countenance
did honour to the choice of the jolly miller, her loving mate; and was now
stationed under the shade of an old-fashioned huge projecting chimney,
within which it was her province to "work i' the fire," and provide for
the wearied wayfaring man, the good things which were to send him
rejoicing on his course. Although, at first, the honest woman seemed
little disposed to give herself much additional trouble on Julian's
account, yet the good looks, handsome figure, and easy civility of her new
guest, soon bespoke the principal part of her attention; and while busy in
his service, she regarded him, from time to time, with looks, where
something like pity mingled with complacency. The rich smoke of the
rasher, and the eggs with which it was flanked, already spread itself
through the apartment; and the hissing of these savoury viands bore chorus
to the simmering of the pan, in which the fish were undergoing a slower
decoction. The table was covered with a clean huck-aback napkin, and all
was in preparation for the meal, which Julian began to expect with a good
deal of impatience, when the companion, who was destined to share it with
him, entered the apartment.

At the first glance Julian recognised, to his surprise, the same
indifferently dressed, thin-looking person, who, during the first bargain
which he had made with Bridlesley, had officiously interfered with his
advice and opinion. Displeased at having the company of any stranger
forced upon him, Peveril was still less satisfied to find one who might
make some claim of acquaintance with him, however slender, since the
circumstances in which he stood compelled him to be as reserved as
possible. He therefore turned his back upon his destined messmate, and
pretended to amuse himself by looking out of the window, determined to
avoid all intercourse until it should be inevitably forced upon him.

In the meanwhile, the other stranger went straight up to the landlady,
where she toiled on household cares intent, and demanded of her, what she
meant by preparing bacon and eggs, when he had positively charged her to
get nothing ready but the fish.

The good woman, important as every cook in the discharge of her duty,
deigned not for some time so much as to acknowledge that she heard the
reproof of her guest; and when she did so, it was only to repel it in a
magisterial and authoritative tone.—"If he did not like bacon—(bacon
from their own hutch, well fed on pease and bran)—if he did not like
bacon and eggs—(new-laid eggs, which she had brought in from the
hen-roost with her own hands)—why so put case—it was the worse
for his honour, and the better for those who did."

"The better for those who like them?" answered the guest; "that is as much
as to say I am to have a companion, good woman."

"Do not good woman me, sir," replied the miller's wife, "till I call you
good man; and, I promise you, many would scruple to do that to one who
does not love eggs and bacon of a Friday."

"Nay, my good lady," said her guest, "do not fix any misconstruction upon
me—I dare say the eggs and the bacon are excellent; only they are
rather a dish too heavy for my stomach."

"Ay, or your conscience perhaps, sir," answered the hostess. "And now, I
bethink me, you must needs have your fish fried with oil, instead of the
good drippings I was going to put to them. I would I could spell the
meaning of all this now; but I warrant John Bigstaff, the constable, could
conjure something out of it."

There was a pause here; but Julian, somewhat alarmed at the tone which the
conversation assumed, became interested in watching the dumb show which
succeeded. By bringing his head a little towards the left, but without
turning round, or quitting the projecting latticed window where he had
taken his station, he could observe that the stranger, secured, as he
seemed to think himself, from observation, had sidled close up to the
landlady, and, as he conceived, had put a piece of money into her hand.
The altered tone of the miller's moiety corresponded very much with this
supposition.

"Nay, indeed, and forsooth," she said, "her house was Liberty Hall; and so
should every publican's be. What was it to her what gentlefolks ate or
drank, providing they paid for it honestly? There were many honest
gentlemen, whose stomachs could not abide bacon, grease, or dripping,
especially on a Friday; and what was that to her, or any one in her line,
so gentlefolks paid honestly for the trouble? Only, she would say, that
her bacon and eggs could not be mended betwixt this and Liverpool, and
that she would live and die upon."

"I shall hardly dispute it," said the stranger; and turning towards
Julian, he added, "I wish this gentleman, who I suppose is my
trencher-companion, much joy of the dainties which I cannot assist him in
consuming."

"I assure you, sir," answered Peveril, who now felt himself compelled to
turn about, and reply with civility, "that it was with difficulty I could
prevail on my landlady to add my cover to yours, though she seems now such
a zealot for the consumption of eggs and bacon."

"I am zealous for nothing," said the landlady, "save that men would eat
their victuals, and pay their score; and if there be enough in one dish to
serve two guests, I see little purpose in dressing them two; however, they
are ready now, and done to a nicety.—Here, Alice! Alice!"

The sound of that well-known name made Julian start; but the Alice who
replied to the call ill resembled the vision which his imagination
connected with the accents, being a dowdy slipshod wench, the drudge of
the low inn which afforded him shelter. She assisted her mistress in
putting on the table the dishes which the latter had prepared; and a
foaming jug of home-brewed ale being placed betwixt them, was warranted by
Dame Whitecraft as excellent; "for," said she, "we know by practice that
too much water drowns the miller, and we spare it on our malt as we would
in our mill-dam."

"I drink to your health in it, dame," said the elder stranger; "and a cup
of thanks for these excellent fish; and to the drowning of all unkindness
between us."

"I thank you, sir," said the dame, "and wish you the like; but I dare not
pledge you, for our Gaffer says that ale is brewed too strong for women;
so I only drink a glass of canary at a time with a gossip, or any
gentleman guest that is so minded."

"You shall drink one with me, then, dame," said Peveril, "so you will let
me have a flagon."

"That you shall, sir, and as good as ever was broached; but I must to the
mill, to get the key from the goodman."

So saying, and tucking her clean gown through the pocket-holes, that her
steps might be the more alert, and her dress escape dust, off she tripped
to the mill, which lay close adjoining.

"A dainty dame, and dangerous, is the miller's wife," said the stranger,
looking at Peveril. "Is not that old Chaucer's phrase?"

"I—I believe so," said Peveril, not much read in Chaucer, who was
then even more neglected than at present; and much surprised at a literary
quotation from one of the mean appearance exhibited by the person before
him.

"Yes," answered the stranger, "I see that you, like other young gentlemen
of the time, are better acquainted with Cowley and Waller, than with the
'well of English undefiled.' I cannot help differing. There are touches of
nature about the old bard of Woodstock, that, to me, are worth all the
turns of laborious wit in Cowley, and all the ornate and artificial
simplicity of his courtly competitor. The description, for instance, of
his country coquette—

'Wincing she was, as is a wanton colt,
Sweet as a flower, and upright as a bolt.'

Then, again, for pathos, where will you mend the dying scene of Arcite?

'Alas, my heart's queen! alas, my wife!
Giver at once, and ender of my life.
What is this world?—What axen men to have?
Now with his love—now in his cold grave
Alone, withouten other company.'

But I tire you, sir; and do injustice to the poet, whom I remember but by
halves."

"On the contrary, sir," replied Peveril, "you make him more intelligible
to me in your recitation, than I have found him when I have tried to
peruse him myself."

"You were only frightened by the antiquated spelling, and 'the letters
black,'" said his companion. "It is many a scholar's case, who mistakes a
nut, which he could crack with a little exertion, for a bullet, which he
must needs break his teeth on; but yours are better employed.—Shall
I offer you some of this fish?"

"Not so, sir," replied Julian, willing to show himself a man of reading in
his turn; "I hold with old Caius, and profess to fear judgment, to fight
where I cannot choose, and to eat no fish."

The stranger cast a startled look around him at this observation, which
Julian had thrown out, on purpose to ascertain, if possible, the quality
of his companion, whose present language was so different from the
character he had assumed at Bridlesley's. His countenance, too, although
the features were of an ordinary, not to say mean cast, had that character
of intelligence which education gives to the most homely face; and his
manners were so easy and disembarrassed, as plainly showed a complete
acquaintance with society, as well as the habit of mingling with it in the
higher stages. The alarm which he had evidently shown at Peveril's answer,
was but momentary; for he almost instantly replied, with a smile, "I
promise you, sir, that you are in no dangerous company; for
notwithstanding my fish dinner, I am much disposed to trifle with some of
your savoury mess, if you will indulge me so far."

Peveril accordingly reinforced the stranger's trencher with what remained
of the bacon and eggs, and saw him swallow a mouthful or two with apparent
relish; but presently after began to dally with his knife and fork, like
one whose appetite was satiated; and then took a long draught of the black
jack, and handed his platter to the large mastiff dog, who, attracted by
the smell of the dinner, had sat down before him for some time, licking
his chops, and following with his eye every morsel which the guest raised
to his head.

"Here, my poor fellow," said he, "thou hast had no fish, and needest this
supernumerary trencher-load more than I do. I cannot withstand thy mute
supplication any longer."

The dog answered these courtesies by a civil shake of the tail, while he
gobbled up what was assigned him by the stranger's benevolence, in the
greater haste, that he heard his mistress's voice at the door.

"Here is the canary, gentlemen," said the landlady; "and the goodman has
set off the mill, to come to wait on you himself. He always does so, when
company drink wine."

"That he may come in for the host's, that is, for the lion's share," said
the stranger, looking at Peveril.

"The shot is mine," said Julian; "and if mine host will share it, I will
willingly bestow another quart on him, and on you, sir. I never break old
customs."

These sounds caught the ear of Gaffer Whitecraft, who had entered the
room, a strapping specimen of his robust trade, prepared to play the
civil, or the surly host, as his company should be acceptable or
otherwise. At Julian's invitation, he doffed his dusty bonnet—brushed
from his sleeve the looser particles of his professional dust—and
sitting down on the end of a bench, about a yard from the table, filled a
glass of canary, and drank to his guests, and "especially to this noble
gentleman," indicating Peveril, who had ordered the canary.

Julian returned the courtesy by drinking his health, and asking what news
were about in the country?

"Nought, sir, I hears on nought, except this Plot, as they call it, that
they are pursuing the Papishers about; but it brings water to my mill, as
the saying is. Between expresses hurrying hither and thither, and guards
and prisoners riding to and again, and the custom of the neighbours, that
come to speak over the news of an evening, nightly, I may say, instead of
once a week, why, the spigot is in use, gentlemen, and your land thrives;
and then I, serving as constable, and being a known Protestant, I have
tapped, I may venture to say, it may be ten stands of ale extraordinary,
besides a reasonable sale of wine for a country corner. Heaven make us
thankful, and keep all good Protestants from Plot and Popery."

"I can easily conceive, my friend," said Julian, "that curiosity is a
passion which runs naturally to the alehouse; and that anger, and
jealousy, and fear, are all of them thirsty passions, and great consumers
of home-brewed. But I am a perfect stranger in these parts; and I would
willingly learn, from a sensible man like you, a little of this same Plot,
of which men speak so much, and appear to know so little."

"Learn a little of it?—Why, it is the most horrible—the most
damnable, bloodthirsty beast of a Plot—But hold, hold, my good
master; I hope, in the first place, you believe there is a Plot; for,
otherwise, the Justice must have a word with you, as sure as my name is
John Whitecraft."

"It shall not need," said Peveril; "for I assure you, mine host, I believe
in the Plot as freely and fully as a man can believe in anything he cannot
understand."

"God forbid that anybody should pretend to understand it," said the
implicit constable; "for his worship the Justice says it is a mile beyond
him; and he be as deep as most of them. But men may believe, though they
do not understand; and that is what the Romanists say themselves. But this
I am sure of, it makes a rare stirring time for justices, and witnesses,
and constables.—So here's to your health again, gentlemen, in a cup
of neat canary."

"Come, come, John Whitecraft," said the wife, "do not you demean yourself
by naming witnesses along with justices and constables. All the world
knows how they come by their money."

"Ay, but all the world knows that they do come by it, dame; and
that is a great comfort. They rustle in their canonical silks, and swagger
in their buff and scarlet, who but they?—Ay, ay, the cursed fox
thrives—and not so cursed neither. Is there not Doctor Titus Oates,
the saviour of the nation—does he not live at Whitehall, and eat off
plate, and have a pension of thousands a year, for what I know? and is he
not to be Bishop of Litchfield, so soon as Dr. Doddrum dies?"

"Then I hope Dr. Doddrum's reverence will live these twenty years; and I
dare say I am the first that ever wished such a wish," said the hostess.
"I do not understand these doings, not I; and if a hundred Jesuits came to
hold a consult at my house, as they did at the White Horse Tavern, I
should think it quite out of the line of business to bear witness against
them, provided they drank well, and paid their score."

"Very true, dame," said her elder guest; "that is what I call keeping a
good publican conscience; and so I will pay my score presently, and be
jogging on my way."

Peveril, on his part, also demanded a reckoning, and discharged it so
liberally, that the miller flourished his hat as he bowed, and the hostess
courtesied down to the ground.

The horses of both guests were brought forth; and they mounted, in order
to depart in company. The host and hostess stood in the doorway, to see
them depart. The landlord proffered a stirrup-cup to the elder guest,
while the landlady offered Peveril a glass from her own peculiar bottle.
For this purpose, she mounted on the horse-block, with flask and glass in
hand; so that it was easy for the departing guest, although on horse-back,
to return the courtesy in the most approved manner, namely, by throwing
his arm over his landlady's shoulder, and saluting her at parting.

Dame Whitecraft did not decline this familiarity; for there is no room for
traversing upon a horse-block, and the hands which might have served her
for resistance, were occupied with glass and bottle—matters too
precious to be thrown away in such a struggle. Apparently, however, she
had something else in her head; for as, after a brief affectation of
reluctance, she permitted Peveril's face to approach hers, she whispered
in his ear, "Beware of trepans!"—an awful intimation, which, in
those days of distrust, suspicion, and treachery, was as effectual in
interdicting free and social intercourse, as the advertisement of
"man-traps and spring-guns," to protect an orchard. Pressing her hand, in
intimation that he comprehended her hint, she shook his warmly in return,
and bade God speed him. There was a cloud on John Whitecraft's brow; nor
did his final farewell sound half so cordial as that which had been spoken
within doors. But then Peveril reflected, that the same guest is not
always equally acceptable to landlord and landlady; and unconscious of
having done anything to excite the miller's displeasure, he pursued his
journey without thinking farther of the matter.

Julian was a little surprised, and not altogether pleased, to find that
his new acquaintance held the same road with him. He had many reasons for
wishing to travel alone; and the hostess's caution still rung in his ears.
If this man, possessed of so much shrewdness as his countenance and
conversation intimated, versatile, as he had occasion to remark, and
disguised beneath his condition, should prove, as was likely, to be a
concealed Jesuit or seminary-priest, travelling upon their great task of
the conversion of England, and rooting out of the Northern heresy,—a
more dangerous companion, for a person in his own circumstances, could
hardly be imagined; since keeping society with him might seem to authorise
whatever reports had been spread concerning the attachment of his family
to the Catholic cause. At the same time, it was very difficult, without
actual rudeness, to shake off the company of one who seemed so determined,
whether spoken to or not, to remain alongside of him.

Peveril tried the experiment of riding slow; but his companion, determined
not to drop him, slackened his pace, so as to keep close by him. Julian
then spurred his horse to a full trot; and was soon satisfied, that the
stranger, notwithstanding the meanness of his appearance, was so much
better mounted than himself, as to render vain any thought of outriding
him. He pulled up his horse to a more reasonable pace, therefore, in a
sort of despair. Upon his doing so, his companion, who had been hitherto
silent, observed, that Peveril was not so well qualified to try speed upon
the road, as he would have been had he abode by his first bargain of
horse-flesh that morning.

Peveril assented dryly, but observed, that the animal would serve his
immediate purpose, though he feared it would render him indifferent
company for a person better mounted.

"By no means," answered his civil companion; "I am one of those who have
travelled so much, as to be accustomed to make my journey at any rate of
motion which may be most agreeable to my company."

Peveril made no reply to this polite intimation, being too sincere to
tender the thanks which, in courtesy, were the proper answer.—A
second pause ensued, which was broken by Julian asking the stranger
whether their roads were likely to lie long together in the same
direction.

"I cannot tell," said the stranger, smiling, "unless I knew which way you
were travelling."

"I am uncertain how far I shall go to-night," said Julian, willingly
misunderstanding the purport of the reply.

"And so am I," replied the stranger; "but though my horse goes better than
yours, I think it will be wise to spare him; and in case our road
continues to lie the same way, we are likely to sup, as we have dined
together."

Julian made no answer whatever to this round intimation, but continued to
ride on, turning, in his own mind, whether it would not be wisest to come
to a distinct understanding with his pertinacious attendant, and to
explain, in so many words, that it was his pleasure to travel alone. But,
besides that the sort of acquaintance which they had formed during dinner,
rendered him unwilling to be directly uncivil towards a person of
gentleman-like manners, he had also to consider that he might very
possibly be mistaken in this man's character and purpose; in which case,
the cynically refusing the society of a sound Protestant, would afford as
pregnant matter of suspicion, as travelling in company with a disguised
Jesuit.

After brief reflection, therefore, he resolved to endure the encumbrance
of the stranger's society, until a fair opportunity should occur to rid
himself of it; and, in the meantime, to act with as much caution as he
possibly could, in any communication that might take place between them;
for Dame Whitecraft's parting caution still rang anxiously in his ears,
and the consequences of his own arrest upon suspicion, must deprive him of
every opportunity of serving his father, or the countess, or Major
Bridgenorth, upon whose interest, also, he had promised himself to keep an
eye.

While he revolved these things in his mind, they had journeyed several
miles without speaking; and now entered upon a more waste country, and
worse roads, than they had hitherto found, being, in fact, approaching the
more hilly district of Derbyshire. In travelling on a very stony and
uneven lane, Julian's horse repeatedly stumbled; and, had he not been
supported by the rider's judicious use of the bridle, must at length
certainly have fallen under him.

"These are times which crave wary riding, sir," said his companion; "and
by your seat in the saddle, and your hand on the rein, you seem to
understand it to be so."

"I have been long a horseman, sir," answered Peveril.

"And long a traveller, too, sir, I should suppose; since by the great
caution you observe, you seem to think the human tongue requires a curb,
as well as the horse's jaws."

"Wiser men than I have been of opinion," answered Peveril, "that it were a
part of prudence to be silent, when men have little or nothing to say."

"I cannot approve of their opinion," answered the stranger. "All knowledge
is gained by communication, either with the dead, through books, or, more
pleasingly, through the conversation of the living. The deaf and dumb,
alone, are excluded from improvement; and surely their situation is not so
enviable that we should imitate them."

At this illustration, which awakened a startling echo in Peveril's bosom,
the young man looked hard at his companion; but in the composed
countenance, and calm blue eye, he read no consciousness of a farther
meaning than the words immediately and directly implied. He paused a
moment, and then answered, "You seem to be a person, sir, of shrewd
apprehension; and I should have thought it might have occurred to you,
that in the present suspicious times, men may, without censure, avoid
communication with strangers. You know not me; and to me you are totally
unknown. There is not room for much discourse between us, without
trespassing on the general topics of the day, which carry in them seeds of
quarrel between friends, much more betwixt strangers. At any other time,
the society of an intelligent companion would have been most acceptable
upon my solitary ride; but at present——"

"At present!" said the other, interrupting him. "You are like the old
Romans, who held that hostis meant both a stranger and an enemy. I
will therefore be no longer a stranger. My name is Ganlesse—by
profession I am a Roman Catholic priest—I am travelling here in
dread of my life—and I am very glad to have you for a companion."

"I thank you for the information with all my heart," said Peveril; "and to
avail myself of it to the uttermost, I must beg you to ride forward, or
lag behind, or take a side-path, at your own pleasure; for as I am no
Catholic, and travel upon business of high concernment, I am exposed both
to risk and delay, and even to danger, by keeping such suspicious company.
And so, Master Ganlesse, keep your own pace, and I will keep the contrary;
for I beg leave to forbear your company."

As Peveril spoke thus, he pulled up his horse, and made a full stop.

The stranger burst out a-laughing. "What!" he said, "you forbear my
company for a trifle of danger? Saint Anthony! How the warm blood of the
Cavaliers is chilled in the young men of the present day! This young
gallant, now, has a father, I warrant, who has endured as many adventures
for hunting priests, as a knight-errant for distressed damsels."

"This raillery avails nothing, sir," said Peveril. "I must request you
will keep your own way."

"My way is yours," said the pertinacious Master Ganlesse, as he called
himself; "and we will both travel the safer, that we journey in company. I
have the receipt of fern-seed, man, and walk invisible. Besides, you would
not have me quit you in this lane, where there is no turn to right or
left?"

Peveril moved on, desirous to avoid open violence—for which the
indifferent tone of the traveller, indeed, afforded no apt pretext—yet
highly disliking his company, and determined to take the first opportunity
to rid himself of it.

The stranger proceeded at the same pace with him, keeping cautiously on
his bridle hand, as if to secure that advantage in case of a struggle. But
his language did not intimate the least apprehension. "You do me wrong,"
he said to Peveril, "and you equally wrong yourself. You are uncertain
where to lodge to-night—trust to my guidance. Here is an ancient
hall, within four miles, with an old knightly Pantaloon for its lord—an
all-be-ruffed Dame Barbara for the lady gay—a Jesuit, in a butler's
habit, to say grace—an old tale of Edgehill and Worster fights to
relish a cold venison pasty, and a flask of claret mantled with cobwebs—a
bed for you in the priest's hiding-hole—and, for aught I know,
pretty Mistress Betty, the dairy-maid, to make it ready."

"This has no charms for me, sir," said Peveril, who, in spite of himself,
could not but be amused with the ready sketch which the stranger gave of
many an old mansion in Cheshire and Derbyshire, where the owners retained
the ancient faith of Rome.

"Well, I see I cannot charm you in this way," continued his companion; "I
must strike another key. I am no longer Ganlesse, the seminary priest, but
(changing his tone, and snuffling in the nose) Simon Canter, a poor
preacher of the Word, who travels this way to call sinners to repentance;
and to strengthen, and to edify, and to fructify among the scattered
remnant who hold fast the truth.—What say you to this, sir?"

"I admire your versatility, sir, and could be entertained with it at
another time. At present sincerity is more in request."

"Sincerity!" said the stranger;—"a child's whistle, with but two
notes in it—yea, yea, and nay, nay. Why, man, the very Quakers have
renounced it, and have got in its stead a gallant recorder, called
Hypocrisy, that is somewhat like Sincerity in form, but of much greater
compass, and combines the whole gamut. Come, be ruled—be a disciple
of Simon Canter for the evening, and we will leave the old tumble-down
castle of the knight aforesaid, on the left hand, for a new brick-built
mansion, erected by an eminent salt-boiler from Namptwich, who expects the
said Simon to make a strong spiritual pickle for the preservation of a
soul somewhat corrupted by the evil communications of this wicked world.
What say you? He has two daughters—brighter eyes never beamed under
a pinched hood; and for myself, I think there is more fire in those who
live only to love and to devotion, than in your court beauties, whose
hearts are running on twenty follies besides. You know not the pleasure of
being conscience-keeper to a pretty precisian, who in one breath repeats
her foibles, and in the next confesses her passion. Perhaps, though, you
may have known such in your day? Come, sir, it grows too dark to see your
blushes; but I am sure they are burning on your cheek."

"You take great freedom, sir," said Peveril, as they now approached the
end of the lane, where it opened on a broad common; "and you seem rather
to count more on my forbearance, than you have room to do with safety. We
are now nearly free of the lane which has made us companions for this late
half hour. To avoid your farther company, I will take the turn to the
left, upon that common; and if you follow me, it shall be at your peril.
Observe, I am well armed; and you will fight at odds."

"Not at odds," returned the provoking stranger, "while I have my brown
jennet, with which I can ride round and round you at pleasure; and this
text, of a handful in length (showing a pistol which he drew from his
bosom), which discharges very convincing doctrine on the pressure of a
forefinger, and is apt to equalise all odds, as you call them, of youth
and strength. Let there be no strife between us, however—the moor
lies before us—choose your path on it—I take the other."

"I wish you good night, sir," said Peveril to the stranger. "I ask your
forgiveness, if I have misconstrued you in anything; but the times are
perilous, and a man's life may depend on the society in which he travels."

"True," said the stranger; "but in your case, the danger is already
undergone, and you should seek to counteract it. You have travelled in my
company long enough to devise a handsome branch of the Popish Plot. How
will you look, when you see come forth, in comely folio form, The
Narrative of Simon Canter, otherwise called Richard Ganlesse, concerning
the horrid Popish Conspiracy for the Murder of the King, and Massacre of
all Protestants, as given on oath to the Honourable House of Commons;
setting forth, how far Julian Peveril, younger of Martindale Castle, is
concerned in carrying on the same——"

"How, sir? What mean you?" said Peveril, much startled.

"Nay, sir," replied his companion, "do not interrupt my title-page. Now
that Oates and Bedloe have drawn the great prizes, the subordinate
discoverers get little but by the sale of their Narrative; and Janeway,
Newman, Simmons, and every bookseller of them, will tell you that the
title is half the narrative. Mine shall therefore set forth the various
schemes you have communicated to me, of landing ten thousand soldiers from
the Isle of Man upon the coast of Lancashire; and marching into Wales, to
join the ten thousand pilgrims who are to be shipped from Spain; and so
completing the destruction of the Protestant religion, and of the devoted
city of London. Truly, I think such a Narrative, well spiced with a few
horrors, and published cum privilegio parliamenti, might, though
the market be somewhat overstocked, be still worth some twenty or thirty
pieces."

"You seem to know me, sir," said Peveril; "and if so, I think I may fairly
ask you your purpose in thus bearing me company, and the meaning of all
this rhapsody. If it be mere banter, I can endure it within proper limit;
although it is uncivil on the part of a stranger. If you have any farther
purpose, speak it out; I am not to be trifled with."

"Good, now," said the stranger, laughing, "into what an unprofitable chafe
you have put yourself! An Italian fuoruscito, when he desires a
parley with you, takes aim from behind a wall, with his long gun, and
prefaces his conference with Posso tirare. So does your man-of-war
fire a gun across the bows of a Hansmogan Indiaman, just to bring her to;
and so do I show Master Julian Peveril, that, if I were one of the
honourable society of witnesses and informers, with whom his imagination
has associated me for these two hours past, he is as much within my danger
now, as what he is ever likely to be." Then, suddenly changing his tone to
serious, which was in general ironical, he added, "Young man, when the
pestilence is diffused through the air of a city, it is in vain men would
avoid the disease, by seeking solitude, and shunning the company of their
fellow-sufferers."

"In what, then, consists their safety?" said Peveril, willing to
ascertain, if possible, the drift of his companion's purpose.

"In following the counsels of wise physicians;" such was the stranger's
answer.

"And as such," said Peveril, "you offer me your advice?"

"Pardon me, young man," said the stranger haughtily, "I see no reason I
should do so.—I am not," he added, in his former tone, "your fee'd
physician—I offer no advice—I only say it would be wise that
you sought it."

"And from whom, or where, can I obtain it?" said Peveril. "I wander in
this country like one in a dream; so much a few months have changed it.
Men who formerly occupied themselves with their own affairs, are now
swallowed up in matters of state policy; and those tremble under the
apprehension of some strange and sudden convulsion of empire, who were
formerly only occupied by the fear of going to bed supperless. And to sum
up the matter, I meet a stranger apparently well acquainted with my name
and concerns, who first attaches himself to me, whether I will or no; and
then refuses me an explanation of his business, while he menaces me with
the strangest accusations."

"Had I meant such infamy," said the stranger, "believe me, I had not given
you the thread of my intrigue. But be wise, and come one with me. There
is, hard by, a small inn, where, if you can take a stranger's warrant for
it, we shall sleep in perfect security."

"Yet, you yourself," said Peveril, "but now were anxious to avoid
observation; and in that case, how can you protect me?"

"Pshaw! I did but silence that tattling landlady, in the way in which such
people are most readily hushed; and for Topham, and his brace of night
owls, they must hawk at other and lesser game than I should prove."

Peveril could not help admiring the easy and confident indifference with
which the stranger seemed to assume a superiority to all the circumstances
of danger around him; and after hastily considering the matter with
himself, came to the resolution to keep company with him for this night at
least; and to learn, if possible, who he really was, and to what party in
the estate he was attached. The boldness and freedom of his talk seemed
almost inconsistent with his following the perilous, though at that time
the gainful trade of an informer. No doubt, such persons assumed every
appearance which could insinuate them into the confidence of their
destined victims; but Julian thought he discovered in this man's manner, a
wild and reckless frankness, which he could not but connect with the idea
of sincerity in the present case. He therefore answered, after a moment's
recollection, "I embrace your proposal, sir; although, by doing so, I am
reposing a sudden, and perhaps an unwary, confidence."

"And what am I, then, reposing in you?" said the stranger. "Is not our
confidence mutual?"

"No; much the contrary. I know nothing of you whatever—you have
named me; and, knowing me to be Julian Peveril, know you may travel with
me in perfect security."

"The devil I do!" answered his companion. "I travel in the same security
as with a lighted petard, which I may expect to explode every moment. Are
you not the son of Peveril of the Peak, with whose name Prelacy and Popery
are so closely allied, that no old woman of either sex in Derbyshire
concludes her prayer without a petition to be freed from all three? And do
you not come from the Popish Countess of Derby, bringing, for aught I
know, a whole army of Manxmen in your pocket, with full complement of
arms, ammunition, baggage, and a train of field artillery?"

"It is not very likely I should be so poorly mounted," said Julian,
laughing, "if I had such a weight to carry. But lead on, sir. I see I must
wait for your confidence, till you think proper to confer it; for you are
already so well acquainted with my affairs, that I have nothing to offer
you in exchange for it."

"Allons, then," said his companion; "give your horse the spur, and
raise the curb rein, lest he measure the ground with his nose instead of
his paces. We are not now more than a furlong or two from the place of
entertainment."

They mended their pace accordingly, and soon arrived at the small solitary
inn which the traveller had mentioned. When its light began to twinkle
before them, the stranger, as if recollecting something he had forgotten,
"By the way, you must have a name to pass by; for it may be ill travelling
under your own, as the fellow who keeps this house is an old Cromwellian.
What will you call yourself?—My name is—for the present—Ganlesse."

"There is no occasion to assume a name at all," answered Julian. "I do not
incline to use a borrowed one, especially as I may meet with some one who
knows my own."

"I will call you Julian, then," said Master Ganlesse; "for Peveril will
smell, in the nostrils of mine host, of idolatry, conspiracy, Smithfield
faggots, fish on Fridays, the murder of Sir Edmondsbury Godfrey, and the
fire of purgatory."

As he spoke thus, they alighted under the great broad-branched oak tree,
that served to canopy the ale-bench, which, at an earlier hour, had
groaned under the weight of a frequent conclave of rustic politicians.
Ganlesse, as he dismounted, whistled in a particularly shrill note, and
was answered from within the house.

CHAPTER XXII

He was a fellow in a peasant's garb;
Yet one could censure you a woodcock's carving.
Like any courtier at the ordinary.
—THE ORDINARY.

The person who appeared at the door of the little inn to receive Ganlesse,
as we mentioned in our last chapter, sung, as he came forward, this scrap
of an old ballad,—

"Good even to you, Diccon;
And how have you sped;
Bring you the bonny bride
To banquet and bed?"

To which Ganlesse answered, in the same tone and tune,—

"Content thee, kind Robin;
He need little care,
Who brings home a fat buck
Instead of a hare."

"You have missed your blow, then?" said the other, in reply.

"I tell you I have not," answered Ganlesse; "but you will think of nought
but your own thriving occupation—May the plague that belongs to it
stick to it! though it hath been the making of thee."

"Reeking like a sacrifice—Chaubert has done his best. That fellow is
a treasure! give him a farthing candle, and he will cook a good supper out
of it.—Come in, sir. My friend's friend is welcome, as we say in my
country."

"We must have our horses looked to first," said Peveril, who began to be
considerably uncertain about the character of his companions—"that
done, I am for you."

Ganlesse gave a second whistle; a groom appeared, who took charge of both
their horses, and they themselves entered the inn.

The ordinary room of a poor inn seemed to have undergone some alterations,
to render it fit for company of a higher description. There were a
beaufet, a couch, and one or two other pieces of furniture, of a style
inconsistent with the appearance of the place. The tablecloth, which was
already laid, was of the finest damask; and the spoons, forks, &c.,
were of silver. Peveril looked at this apparatus with some surprise; and
again turning his eyes attentively upon his travelling companion,
Ganlesse, he could not help discovering (by the aid of imagination,
perhaps), that though insignificant in person, plain in features, and
dressed like one in indigence, there lurked still about his person and
manners, that indefinable ease of manner which belongs only to men of
birth and quality, or to those who are in the constant habit of
frequenting the best company. His companion, whom he called Will Smith,
although tall and rather good-looking, besides being much better dressed,
had not, nevertheless, exactly the same ease of demeanour; and was obliged
to make up for the want, by an additional proportion of assurance. Who
these two persons could be, Peveril could not attempt even to form a
guess. There was nothing for it but to watch their manner and
conversation.

After speaking a moment in whispers, Smith said to his companion, "We must
go look after our nags for ten minutes, and allow Chaubert to do his
office."

"Will not he appear, and minister before us, then?" said Ganlesse.

"What! he?—he shift a trencher—he hand a cup?—No, you
forget whom you speak of. Such an order were enough to make him fall on
his own sword—he is already on the borders of despair, because no
craw-fish are to be had."

"Alack-a day!" replied Ganlesse. "Heaven forbid I should add to such a
calamity! To stable, then, and see we how our steeds eat their provender,
while ours is getting ready."

They adjourned to the stable accordingly, which, though a poor one, had
been hastily supplied with whatever was necessary for the accommodation of
four excellent horses; one of which, that from which Ganlesse was just
dismounted, the groom we have mentioned was cleaning and dressing by the
light of a huge wax-candle.

"I am still so far Catholic," said Ganlesse, laughing, as he saw that
Peveril noticed this piece of extravagance. "My horse is my saint, and I
dedicate a candle to him."

"Without asking so great a favour for mine, which I see standing behind
yonder old hen-coop," replied Peveril, "I will at least relieve him of his
saddle and bridle."

"Leave him to the lad of the inn," said Smith; "he is not worthy of any
other person's handling; and I promise you, if you slip a single buckle,
you will so flavour of that stable duty, that you might as well eat
roast-beef as ragouts, for any relish you will have of them."

"I love roast-beef as well as ragouts, at any time," said Peveril,
adjusting himself to a task which every young man should know how to
perform when need is; "and my horse, though it be but a sorry jade, will
champ better on hay and corn, than on an iron bit."

While he was unsaddling his horse, and shaking down some litter for the
poor wearied animal, he heard Smith observe to Ganlesse,—"By my
faith, Dick, thou hast fallen into poor Slender's blunder; missed Anne
Page, and brought us a great lubberly post-master's boy."

"Hush, he will hear thee," answered Ganlesse; "there are reasons for all
things—it is well as it is. But, prithee, tell thy fellow to help
the youngster."

"What!" replied Smith, "d'ye think I am mad?—Ask Tom Beacon—Tom
of Newmarket—Tom of ten thousand, to touch such a four-legged brute
as that?—Why, he would turn me away on the spot—discard me,
i'faith. It was all he would do to take in hand your own, my good friend;
and if you consider him not the better, you are like to stand groom to him
yourself to-morrow."

"Well, Will," answered Ganlesse, "I will say that for thee, thou hast a
set of the most useless, scoundrelly, insolent vermin about thee, that
ever ate up a poor gentleman's revenues."

"Useless? I deny it," replied Smith. "Every one of my fellows does
something or other so exquisitely, that it were sin to make him do
anything else—it is your jacks-of-all-trades who are masters of
none.—But hark to Chaubert's signal. The coxcomb is twangling it on
the lute, to the tune of Eveillez-vous, belle endormie.—Come,
Master What d'ye call (addressing Peveril),—get ye some water, and
wash this filthy witness from your hand, as Betterton says in the play;
for Chaubert's cookery is like Friar Bacon's Head—time is—time
was—time will soon be no more."

So saying, and scarce allowing Julian time to dip his hands in a bucket,
and dry them on a horse-cloth, he hurried him from the stable back to the
supper-chamber.

Here all was prepared for their meal, with an epicurean delicacy, which
rather belonged to the saloon of a palace, than the cabin in which it was
displayed. Four dishes of silver, with covers of the same metal, smoked on
the table; and three seats were placed for the company. Beside the lower
end of the board, was a small side-table, to answer the purpose of what is
now called a dumb waiter; on which several flasks reared their tall,
stately, and swan-like crests, above glasses and rummers. Clean covers
were also placed within reach; and a small travelling-case of morocco,
hooped with silver, displayed a number of bottles, containing the most
approved sauces that culinary ingenuity had then invented.

Smith, who occupied the lower seat, and seemed to act as president of the
feast, motioned the two travellers to take their places and begin. "I
would not stay a grace-time," he said, "to save a whole nation from
perdition. We could bring no chauffettes with any convenience; and even
Chaubert is nothing, unless his dishes are tasted in the very moment of
projection. Come, uncover, and let us see what he has done for us.—Hum!—ha!—ay—squab-pigeons—wildfowl—young
chickens—venison cutlets—and a space in the centre, wet, alas!
by a gentle tear from Chaubert's eye, where should have been the soupe
aux écrevisses. The zeal of that poor fellow is ill repaid by his
paltry ten louis per month."

The repast now commenced; and Julian, though he had seen his young friend
the Earl of Derby, and other gallants, affect a considerable degree of
interest and skill in the science of the kitchen, and was not himself
either an enemy or a stranger to the pleasures of a good table, found
that, on the present occasion, he was a mere novice. Both his companions,
but Smith in especial, seemed to consider that they were now engaged in
the only true business of life; and weighed all its minutiæ with a
proportional degree of accuracy. To carve the morsel in the most delicate
manner—and to apportion the proper seasoning with the accuracy of
the chemist,—to be aware, exactly, of the order in which one dish
should succeed another, and to do plentiful justice to all—was a
minuteness of science to which Julian had hitherto been a stranger. Smith
accordingly treated him as a mere novice in epicurism, cautioning him to
eat his soup before the bouilli, and to forget the Manx custom of bolting
the boiled meat before the broth, as if Cutlar MacCulloch and all his
whingers were at the door. Peveril took the hint in good part, and the
entertainment proceeded with animation.

At length Ganlesse paused, and declared the supper exquisite. "But, my
friend Smith," he added, "are your wines curious? When you brought all
that trash of plates and trumpery into Derbyshire, I hope you did not
leave us at the mercy of the strong ale of the shire, as thick and muddy
as the squires who drink it?"

"Did I not know that you were to meet me, Dick Ganlesse?" answered
their host. "And can you suspect me of such an omission? It is true, you
must make champagne and claret serve, for my burgundy would not bear
travelling. But if you have a fancy for sherry, or Vin de Cahors, I have a
notion Chaubert and Tom Beacon have brought some for their own drinking."

"Perhaps the gentlemen would not care to impart," said Ganlesse.

"Oh, fie!—anything in the way of civility," replied Smith. "They
are, in truth, the best-natured lads alive, when treated respectfully; so
that if you would prefer——"

"By no means," said Ganlesse—"a glass of champagne will serve in a
scarcity of better."

"The cork shall start obsequious to my thumb."

said Smith; and as he spoke, he untwisted the wire, and the cork struck
the roof of the cabin. Each guest took a large rummer glass of the
sparkling beverage, which Peveril had judgment and experience enough to
pronounce exquisite.

"Give me your hand, sir," said Smith; "it is the first word of sense you
have spoken this evening."

"Wisdom, sir," replied Peveril, "is like the best ware in the pedlar's
pack, which he never produces till he knows his customer."

"Sharp as mustard," returned the bon vivant; "but be wise, most
noble pedlar, and take another rummer of this same flask, which you see I
have held in an oblique position for your service—not permitting it
to retrograde to the perpendicular. Nay, take it off before the bubble
bursts on the rim, and the zest is gone."

"You do me honour, sir," said Peveril, taking the second glass. "I wish
you a better office than that of my cup-bearer."

"You cannot wish Will Smith one more congenial to his nature," said
Ganlesse. "Others have a selfish delight in the objects of sense, Will
thrives, and is happy by imparting them to his friends."

"Better help men to pleasures than to pains, Master Ganlesse," answered
Smith, somewhat angrily.

"Nay, wrath thee not, Will," said Ganlesse; "and speak no words in haste,
lest you may have cause to repent at leisure. Do I blame thy social
concern for the pleasures of others? Why, man, thou dost therein most
philosophically multiply thine own. A man has but one throat, and can but
eat, with his best efforts, some five or six times a day; but thou dinest
with every friend that cuts a capon, and art quaffing wine in other men's
gullets, from morning to night—et sic de cæteris."

"Friend Ganlesse," returned Smith, "I prithee beware—thou knowest I
can cut gullets as well as tickle them."

"Ay, Will," answered Ganlesse carelessly; "I think I have seen thee wave
thy whinyard at the throat of a Hogan-Mogan—a Netherlandish weasand,
which expanded only on thy natural and mortal objects of aversion,—Dutch
cheese, rye-bread, pickled herring, onion, and Geneva."

"For pity's sake, forbear the description!" said Smith; "thy words
overpower the perfumes, and flavour the apartment like a dish of
salmagundi!"

"But for an epiglottis like mine," continued Ganlesse, "down which the
most delicate morsels are washed by such claret as thou art now pouring
out, thou couldst not, in thy bitterest mood, wish a worse fate than to be
necklaced somewhat tight by a pair of white arms."

"By a tenpenny cord," answered Smith; "but not till you were dead; that
thereafter you be presently embowelled, you being yet alive; that your
head be then severed from your body, and your body divided into quarters,
to be disposed of at his Majesty's pleasure.—How like you that,
Master Richard Ganlesse?"

"E'en as you like the thoughts of dining on bran-bread and milk-porridge—an
extremity which you trust never to be reduced to. But all this shall not
prevent me from pledging you in a cup of sound claret."

As the claret circulated, the glee of the company increased; and Smith
placing the dishes which had been made use of upon the side-table, stamped
with his foot on the floor, and the table sinking down a trap, again rose,
loaded with olives, sliced neat's tongue, caviare, and other provocatives
for the circulation of the bottle.

"Why, Will," said Ganlesse, "thou art a more complete mechanist than I
suspected; thou hast brought thy scene-shifting inventions to Derbyshire
in marvellously short time."

"A rope and pullies can be easily come by," answered Will; "and with a saw
and a plane, I can manage that business in half a day. I love the knack of
clean and secret conveyance—thou knowest it was the foundation of my
fortunes."

"It may be the wreck of them too, Will," replied his friend.

"True, Diccon," answered Will; "but, dum vivimus, vivamus,—that
is my motto; and therewith I present you a brimmer to the health of the
fair lady you wot of."

"Let it come, Will," replied his friend; and the flask circulated briskly
from hand to hand.

Julian did not think it prudent to seem a check on their festivity, as he
hoped in its progress something might occur to enable him to judge of the
character and purposes of his companions. But he watched them in vain.
Their conversation was animated and lively, and often bore reference to
the literature of the period, in which the elder seemed particularly well
skilled. They also talked freely of the Court, and of that numerous class
of gallants who were then described as "men of wit and pleasure about
town;" and to which it seemed probable they themselves appertained.

At length the universal topic of the Popish Plot was started; upon which
Ganlesse and Smith seemed to entertain the most opposite opinions.
Ganlesse, if he did not maintain the authority of Oates in its utmost
extent, contended, that at least it was confirmed in a great measure by
the murder of Sir Edmondsbury Godfrey, and the letters written by Coleman
to the confessor of the French King.

With much more noise, and less power of reasoning, Will Smith hesitated
not to ridicule and run down the whole discovery, as one of the wildest
and most causeless alarms which had ever been sounded in the ears of a
credulous public. "I shall never forget," he said, "Sir Godfrey's most
original funeral. Two bouncing parsons, well armed with sword and pistol,
mounted the pulpit, to secure the third fellow who preached from being
murdered in the face of the congregation. Three parsons in one pulpit—three
suns in one hemisphere—no wonder men stood aghast at such a
prodigy."

"What then, Will," answered his companion, "you are one of those who think
the good knight murdered himself, in order to give credit to the Plot?"

"By my faith, not I," said the other; "but some true blue Protestant might
do the job for him, in order to give the thing a better colour.—I
will be judged by our silent friend, whether that be not the most feasible
solution of the whole."

"I pray you, pardon me, gentlemen," said Julian; "I am but just landed in
England, and am a stranger to the particular circumstances which have
thrown the nation into such a ferment. It would be the highest degree of
assurance in me to give my opinion betwixt gentlemen who argue the matter
so ably; besides, to say truth, I confess weariness—your wine is
more potent than I expected, or I have drunk more of it than I meant to
do."

"Nay, if an hour's nap will refresh you," said the elder of the strangers,
"make no ceremony with us. Your bed—all we can offer as such—is
that old-fashioned Dutch-built sofa, as the last new phrase calls it. We
shall be early stirrers tomorrow morning."

"And that we may be so," said Smith, "I propose that we do sit up all this
night—I hate lying rough, and detest a pallet-bed. So have at
another flask, and the newest lampoon to help it out—

'Now a plague of their votes
Upon Papists and Plots,
And be d—d Doctor Oates.
Tol de rol.'"

"Nay, but our Puritanic host," said Ganlesse.

"I have him in my pocket, man—his eyes, ears, nose, and tongue,"
answered his boon companion, "are all in my possession."

"In that case, when you give him back his eyes and nose, I pray you keep
his ears and tongue," answered Ganlesse. "Seeing and smelling are organs
sufficient for such a knave—to hear and tell are things he should
have no manner of pretensions to."

"I grant you it were well done," answered Smith; "but it were a robbing of
the hangman and the pillory; and I am an honest fellow, who would give
Dun[*] and the devil his due. So,

'All joy to great Cæsar,
Long life, love, and pleasure;
May the King live for ever,
'Tis no matter for us, boys.'"

[*] Dun was the hangman of the day at Tyburn. He was successor of
Gregory Brunden, who was by many believed to be the same who
dropped the axe upon Charles I., though others were suspected of
being the actual regicide.

While this Bacchanalian scene proceeded, Julian had wrapt himself closely
in his cloak, and stretched himself on the couch which they had shown him.
He looked towards the table he had left—the tapers seemed to become
hazy and dim as he gazed—he heard the sound of voices, but they
ceased to convey any impression to his understanding; and in a few
minutes, he was faster asleep than he had ever been in the whole course of
his life.

CHAPTER XXIII

The Gordon then his bugle blew,
And said, awa, awa;
The House of Rhodes is all on flame,
I hauld it time to ga'.
—OLD BALLAD.

When Julian awaked the next morning, all was still and vacant in the
apartment. The rising sun, which shone through the half-closed shutters,
showed some relics of the last night's banquet, which his confused and
throbbing head assured him had been carried into a debauch.

Without being much of a boon companion, Julian, like other young men of
the time, was not in the habit of shunning wine, which was then used in
considerable quantities; and he could not help being surprised, that the
few cups he had drunk over night had produced on his frame the effects of
excess. He rose up, adjusted his dress, and sought in the apartment for
water to perform his morning ablutions, but without success. Wine there
was on the table; and beside it one stool stood, and another lay, as if
thrown down in the heedless riot of the evening. "Surely," he thought to
himself, "the wine must have been very powerful, which rendered me
insensible to the noise my companions must have made ere they finished
their carouse."

With momentary suspicion he examined his weapons, and the packet which he
had received from the Countess, and kept in a secret pocket of his upper
coat, bound close about his person. All was safe; and the very operation
reminded him of the duties which lay before him. He left the apartment
where they had supped, and went into another, wretched enough, where, in a
truckle-bed, were stretched two bodies, covered with a rug, the heads
belonging to which were amicably deposited upon the same truss of hay. The
one was the black shock-head of the groom; the other, graced with a long
thrum nightcap, showed a grizzled pate, and a grave caricatured
countenance, which the hook-nose and lantern-jaws proclaimed to belong to
the Gallic minister of good cheer, whose praises he had heard sung forth
on the preceding evening. These worthies seemed to have slumbered in the
arms of Bacchus as well as of Morpheus, for there were broken flasks on
the floor; and their deep snoring alone showed that they were alive.

Bent upon resuming his journey, as duty and expedience alike dictated,
Julian next descended the trap-stair, and essayed a door at the bottom of
the steps. It was fastened within. He called—no answer was returned.
It must be, he thought, the apartment of the revellers, now probably
sleeping as soundly as their dependants still slumbered, and as he himself
had done a few minutes before. Should he awake them?—To what
purpose? They were men with whom accident had involved him against his own
will; and situated as he was, he thought it wise to take the earliest
opportunity of breaking off from society which was suspicious, and might
be perilous. Ruminating thus, he essayed another door, which admitted him
to a bedroom, where lay another harmonious slumberer. The mean utensils,
pewter measures, empty cans and casks, with which this room was lumbered,
proclaimed it that of the host, who slept surrounded by his professional
implements of hospitality and stock-in-trade.

This discovery relieved Peveril from some delicate embarrassment which he
had formerly entertained. He put upon the table a piece of money,
sufficient, as he judged, to pay his share of the preceding night's
reckoning; not caring to be indebted for his entertainment to the
strangers, whom he was leaving without the formality of an adieu.

His conscience cleared of this gentleman-like scruple, Peveril proceeded
with a light heart, though somewhat a dizzy head, to the stable, which he
easily recognised among a few other paltry outhouses. His horse, refreshed
with rest, and perhaps not unmindful of his services the evening before,
neighed as his master entered the stable; and Peveril accepted the sound
as an omen of a prosperous journey. He paid the augury with a sieveful of
corn; and, while his palfrey profited by his attention, walked into the
fresh air to cool his heated blood, and consider what course he should
pursue in order to reach the Castle of Martindale before sunset. His
acquaintance with the country in general gave him confidence that he could
not have greatly deviated from the nearest road; and with his horse in
good condition, he conceived he might easily reach Martindale before
nightfall.

Having adjusted his route in his mind, he returned into the stable to
prepare his steed for the journey, and soon led him into the ruinous
courtyard of the inn, bridled, saddled, and ready to be mounted. But as
Peveril's hand was upon the mane, and his left foot in the stirrup, a hand
touched his cloak, and the voice of Ganlesse said, "What, Master Peveril,
is this your foreign breeding? or have you learned in France to take
French leave of your friends?"

Julian started like a guilty thing, although a moment's reflection assured
him that he was neither wrong nor in danger. "I cared not to disturb you,"
he said, "although I did come as far as the door of your chamber. I
supposed your friend and you might require, after our last night's revel,
rather sleep than ceremony. I left my own bed, though a rough one, with
more reluctance than usual; and as my occasions oblige me to be an early
traveller, I thought it best to depart without leave-taking. I have left a
token for mine host on the table of his apartment."

"It was unnecessary," said Ganlesse; "the rascal is already overpaid.—But
are you not rather premature in your purpose of departing? My mind tells
me that Master Julian Peveril had better proceed with me to London, than
turn aside for any purpose whatever. You may see already that I am no
ordinary person, but a master-spirit of the time. For the cuckoo I travel
with, and whom I indulge in his prodigal follies, he also has his uses.
But you are a different cast; and I not only would serve you, but even
wish you, to be my own."

Julian gazed on this singular person when he spoke. We have already said
his figure was mean and slight, with very ordinary and unmarked features,
unless we were to distinguish the lightnings of a keen grey eye, which
corresponded in its careless and prideful glance, with the haughty
superiority which the stranger assumed in his conversation. It was not
till after a momentary pause that Julian replied, "Can you wonder, sir,
that in my circumstances—if they are indeed known to you so well as
they seem—I should decline unnecessary confidence on the affairs of
moment which have called me hither, or refuse the company of a stranger,
who assigns no reason for desiring mine?"

"Be it as you list, young man," answered Ganlesse; "only remember
hereafter, you had a fair offer—it is not every one to whom I would
have made it. If we should meet hereafter, on other, and on worse terms,
impute it to yourself and not to me."

"I understand not your threat," answered Peveril, "If a threat be indeed
implied. I have done no evil—I feel no apprehension—and I
cannot, in common sense, conceive why I should suffer for refusing my
confidence to a stranger, who seems to require that I should submit me
blindfold to his guidance."

"Farewell, then, Sir Julian of the Peak,—that may soon be," said the
stranger, removing the hand which he had as yet left carelessly on the
horse's bridle.

"How mean you by that phrase?" said Julian; "and why apply such a title to
me?"

The stranger smiled, and only answered, "Here our conference ends. The way
is before you. You will find it longer and rougher than that by which I
would have guided you."

So saying, Ganlesse turned his back and walked toward the house. On the
threshold he turned about once more, and seeing that Peveril had not yet
moved from the spot, he again smiled and beckoned to him; but Julian,
recalled by that sign to recollection, spurred his horse and set forward
on his journey.

It was not long ere his local acquaintance with the country enabled him to
regain the road to Martindale, from which he had diverged on the preceding
evening for about two miles. But the roads, or rather the paths, of this
wild country, so much satirised by their native poet, Cotton, were so
complicated in some places, so difficult to be traced in others, and so
unfit for hasty travelling in almost all, that in spite of Julian's utmost
exertions, and though he made no longer delay upon the journey than was
necessary to bait his horse at a small hamlet through which he passed at
noon, it was nightfall ere he reached an eminence, from which, an hour
sooner, the battlements of Martindale Castle would have been visible; and
where, when they were hid in night, their situation was indicated by a
light constantly maintained in a lofty tower, called the Warder's Turret;
and which domestic beacon had acquired, through all the neighbourhood, the
name of Peveril's Polestar.

This was regularly kindled at curfew toll, and supplied with as much wood
and charcoal as maintained the light till sunrise; and at no period was
the ceremonial omitted, saving during the space intervening between the
death of a Lord of the Castle and his interment. When this last event had
taken place, the nightly beacon was rekindled with some ceremony, and
continued till fate called the successor to sleep with his fathers. It is
not known from which circumstance the practice of maintaining this light
originally sprung. Tradition spoke of it doubtfully. Some thought it was
the signal of general hospitality, which, in ancient times, guided the
wandering knight, or the weary pilgrim, to rest and refreshment. Others
spoke of it as a "love-lighted watchfire," by which the provident anxiety
of a former lady of Martindale guided her husband homeward through the
terrors of a midnight storm. The less favourable construction of
unfriendly neighbours of the dissenting persuasion, ascribed the origin
and continuance of this practice to the assuming pride of the family of
Peveril, who thereby chose to intimate their ancient suzerainté
over the whole country, in the manner of the admiral who carries the
lantern in the poop, for the guidance of the fleet. And in the former
times, our old friend, Master Solsgrace, dealt from the pulpit many a hard
hit against Sir Geoffrey, as he that had raised his horn, and set up his
candlestick on high. Certain it is, that all the Peverils, from father to
son, had been especially attentive to the maintenance of this custom, as
something intimately connected with the dignity of their family; and in
the hands of Sir Geoffrey, the observance was not likely to be omitted.

Accordingly, the polar-star of Peveril had continued to beam more or less
brightly during all the vicissitudes of the Civil War; and glimmered,
however faintly, during the subsequent period of Sir Geoffrey's
depression. But he was often heard to say, and sometimes to swear, that
while there was a perch of woodland left to the estate, the old
beacon-grate should not lack replenishing. All this his son Julian well
knew; and therefore it was with no ordinary feelings of surprise and
anxiety, that, looking in the direction of the Castle, he perceived that
the light was not visible. He halted—rubbed his eyes—shifted
his position—and endeavoured, in vain, to persuade himself that he
had mistaken the point from which the polar-star of his house was visible,
or that some newly intervening obstacle, the growth of a plantation,
perhaps, or the erection of some building, intercepted the light of the
beacon. But a moment's reflection assured him, that from the high and free
situation which Martindale Castle bore in reference to the surrounding
country, this could not have taken place; and the inference necessarily
forced itself upon his mind, that Sir Geoffrey, his father, was either
deceased, or that the family must have been disturbed by some strange
calamity, under the pressure of which, their wonted custom and solemn
usage had been neglected.

Under the influence of undefinable apprehension, young Peveril now struck
the spurs into his jaded steed, and forcing him down the broken and steep
path, at a pace which set safety at defiance, he arrived at the village of
Martindale-Moultrassie, eagerly desirous to ascertain the cause of this
ominous eclipse. The street, through which his tired horse paced slow and
reluctantly, was now deserted and empty; and scarcely a candle twinkled
from a casement, except from the latticed window of the little inn, called
the Peveril Arms, from which a broad light shone, and several voices were
heard in rude festivity.

Before the door of this inn, the jaded palfrey, guided by the instinct or
experience which makes a hackney well acquainted with the outside of a
house of entertainment, made so sudden and determined a pause, that,
notwithstanding his haste, the rider thought it best to dismount,
expecting to be readily supplied with a fresh horse by Roger Raine, the
landlord, the ancient dependant of his family. He also wished to relive
his anxiety, by inquiring concerning the state of things at the Castle,
when he was surprised to hear, bursting from the taproom of the loyal old
host, a well-known song of the Commonwealth time, which some puritanical
wag had written in reprehension of the Cavaliers, and their dissolute
courses, and in which his father came in for a lash of the satirist.

"Ye thought in the world there was no power to tame ye,
So you tippled and drabb'd till the saints overcame ye;
'Forsooth,' and 'Ne'er stir,' sir, have vanquish'd 'G— d—n me,'
Which nobody can deny.
There was bluff old Sir Geoffrey loved brandy and mum well,
And to see a beer-glass turned over the thumb well;
But he fled like the wind, before Fairfax and Cromwell,
Which nobody can deny."

Some strange revolution, Julian was aware, must have taken place, both in
the village and in the Castle, ere these sounds of unseemly insult could
have been poured forth in the very inn which was decorated with the
armorial bearings of his family; and not knowing how far it might be
advisable to intrude on these unfriendly revellers, without the power of
repelling or chastising their insolence, he led his horse to a back-door,
which as he recollected, communicated with the landlord's apartment,
having determined to make private inquiry of him concerning the state of
matters at the Castle. He knocked repeatedly, and as often called on Roger
Raine with an earnest but stifled voice. At length a female voice replied
by the usual inquiry, "Who is there?"

"Alack, and a well-a-day, Master Julian, if it be really you—you are
to know my poor goodman has gone where he can come to no one; but,
doubtless, we shall all go to him, as Matthew Chamberlain says."

"He is dead, then?" said Julian. "I am extremely sorry——"

"Dead six months and more, Master Julian; and let me tell you, it is a
long time for a lone woman, as Matt Chamberlain says."

"Well, do you or your chamberlain undo the door. I want a fresh horse; and
I want to know how things are at the Castle."

"The Castle—lack-a-day!—Chamberlain—Matthew Chamberlain—I
say, Matt!"

Matt Chamberlain apparently was at no great distance, for he presently
answered her call; and Peveril, as he stood close to the door, could hear
them whispering to each other, and distinguish in a great measure what
they said. And here it may be noticed, that Dame Raine, accustomed to
submit to the authority of old Roger, who vindicated as well the husband's
domestic prerogative, as that of the monarch in the state, had, when left
a buxom widow, been so far incommoded by the exercise of her newly
acquired independence, that she had recourse, upon all occasions, to the
advice of Matt Chamberlain; and as Matt began no longer to go slipshod,
and in a red nightcap, but wore Spanish shoes, and a high-crowned beaver
(at least of a Sunday), and moreover was called Master Matthew by his
fellow-servants, the neighbours in the village argued a speedy change of
the name of the sign-post; nay, perhaps, of the very sign itself, for
Matthew was a bit of a Puritan, and no friend to Peveril of the Peak.

"Now counsel me, an you be a man, Matt Chamberlain," said Widow Raine;
"for never stir, if here be not Master Julian's own self, and he wants a
horse, and what not, and all as if things were as they wont to be."

"Why, dame, an ye will walk by my counsel," said the Chamberlain, "e'en
shake him off—let him be jogging while his boots are green. This is
no world for folks to scald their fingers in other folks' broth."

"And that is well spoken, truly," answered Dame Raine; "but then look you,
Matt, we have eaten their bread, and, as my poor goodman used to say——"

"Nay, nay, dame, they that walk by the counsel of the dead, shall have
none of the living; and so you may do as you list; but if you will walk by
mine, drop latch, and draw bolt, and bid him seek quarters farther—that
is my counsel."

"I desire nothing of you, sirrah," said Peveril, "save but to know how Sir
Geoffrey and his lady do?"

"Lack-a-day!—lack-a-day!" in a tone of sympathy, was the only answer
he received from the landlady; and the conversation betwixt her and her
chamberlain was resumed, but in a tone too low to be overheard.

At length Matt Chamberlain spoke aloud, and with a tone of authority: "We
undo no doors at this time of night, for it is against the Justices'
orders, and might cost us our licence; and for the Castle, the road up to
it lies before you, and I think you know it as well as we do."

"And I know you," said Peveril, remounting his wearied horse, "for an
ungrateful churl, whom, on the first opportunity, I will assuredly cudgel
to a mummy."

To this menace Matthew made no reply, and Peveril presently heard him
leave the apartment, after a few earnest words betwixt him and his
mistress.

Impatient at this delay, and at the evil omen implied in these people's
conversation and deportment, Peveril, after some vain spurring of his
horse, which positively refused to move a step farther, dismounted once
more, and was about to pursue his journey on foot, notwithstanding the
extreme disadvantage under which the high riding-boots of the period laid
those who attempted to walk with such encumbrances, when he was stopped by
a gentle call from the window.

Her counsellor was no sooner gone, than the good-nature and habitual
veneration of the dame for the house of Peveril, and perhaps some fear for
her counsellor's bones, induced her to open the casement, and cry, but in
a low and timid tone, "Hist! hist! Master Julian—be you gone?"

"Not yet, dame," said Julian; "though it seems my stay is unwelcome."

"Nay, but good young master, it is because men counsel so differently; for
here was my poor old Roger Raine would have thought the chimney corner too
cold for you; and here is Matt Chamberlain thinks the cold courtyard is
warm enough."

"Never mind that, dame," said Julian; "do but only tell me what has
happened at Martindale Castle? I see the beacon is extinguished."

"Is it in troth?—ay, like enough—then good Sir Geoffrey has
gone to heaven with my old Roger Raine!"

"Sacred Heaven!" exclaimed Peveril; "when was my father taken ill?"

"Never as I knows of," said the dame; "but, about three hours since,
arrived a party at the Castle, with buff-coats and bandoleers, and one of
the Parliament's folks, like in Oliver's time. My old Roger Raine would
have shut the gates of the inn against them, but he is in the churchyard,
and Matt says it is against law; and so they came in and refreshed men and
horses, and sent for Master Bridgenorth, that is at Moultrassie Hall even
now; and so they went up to the Castle, and there was a fray, it is like,
as the old Knight was no man to take napping, as poor Roger Raine used to
say. Always the officers had the best on't; and reason there is, since
they had the law of their side, as our Matthew says. But since the
pole-star of the Castle is out, as your honour says, why, doubtless, the
old gentleman is dead."

"Gracious Heaven!—Dear dame, for love or gold, let me have a horse
to make for the Castle!"

"The Castle?" said the dame; "the Roundheads, as my poor Roger called
them, will kill you as they have killed your father! Better creep into the
woodhouse, and I will send Bett with a blanket and some supper—Or
stay—my old Dobbin stands in the little stable beside the hencoop—e'en
take him, and make the best of your way out of the country, for there is
no safety here for you. Hear what songs some of them are singing at the
tap!—so take Dobbin, and do not forget to leave your own horse
instead."

Peveril waited to hear no farther, only, that just as he turned to go off
to the stable, the compassionate female was heard to exclaim—"O
Lord! what will Matthew Chamberlain say!" but instantly added, "Let him
say what he will, I may dispose of what's my own."

With the haste of a double-fee'd hostler did Julian exchange the
equipments of his jaded brute with poor Dobbin, who stood quietly tugging
at his rackful of hay, without dreaming of the business which was that
night destined for him. Notwithstanding the darkness of the place, Julian
succeeded marvellous quickly in preparing for his journey; and leaving his
own horse to find its way to Dobbin's rack by instinct, he leaped upon his
new acquisition, and spurred him sharply against the hill, which rises
steeply from the village to the Castle. Dobbin, little accustomed to such
exertions, snorted, panted, and trotted as briskly as he could, until at
length he brought his rider before the entrance-gate of his father's
ancient seat.

The moon was now rising, but the portal was hidden from its beams, being
situated, as we have mentioned elsewhere, in a deep recess betwixt two
large flanking towers. Peveril dismounted, turned his horse loose, and
advanced to the gate, which, contrary to his expectation, he found open.
He entered the large courtyard; and could then perceive that lights yet
twinkled in the lower part of the building, although he had not before
observed them, owing to the height of the outward walls. The main door, or
great hall-gate, as it was called, was, since the partially decayed state
of the family, seldom opened, save on occasions of particular ceremony. A
smaller postern door served the purpose of ordinary entrance; and to that
Julian now repaired. This also was open—a circumstance which would
of itself have alarmed him, had he not already had so many causes for
apprehension. His heart sunk within him as he turned to the left, through
a small outward hall, towards the great parlour, which the family usually
occupied as a sitting apartment; and his alarm became still greater, when,
on a nearer approach, he heard proceeding from thence the murmur of
several voices. He threw the door of the apartment wide; and the sight
which was thus displayed, warranted all the evil bodings which he had
entertained.

In front of him stood the old Knight, whose arms were strongly secured,
over the elbows, by a leathern belt drawn tight round them, and made fast
behind; two ruffianly-looking men, apparently his guards, had hold of his
doublet. The scabbard-less sword which lay on the floor, and the empty
sheath which hung by Sir Geoffrey's side, showed the stout old Cavalier
had not been reduced to this state of bondage without an attempt at
resistance. Two or three persons, having their backs turned towards
Julian, sat round a table, and appeared engaged in writing—the
voices which he had heard were theirs, as they murmured to each other.
Lady Peveril—the emblem of death, so pallid was her countenance—stood
at the distance of a yard or two from her husband, upon whom her eyes were
fixed with an intenseness of gaze, like that of one who looks her last on
the object which she loves the best. She was the first to perceive Julian;
and she exclaimed, "Merciful Heaven!—my son!—the misery of our
house is complete!"

"My son!" echoed Sir Geoffrey, starting from the sullen state of
dejection, and swearing a deep oath—"thou art come in the right
time, Julian. Strike me one good blow—cleave me that traitorous
thief from the crown to the brisket! and that done, I care not what comes
next."

The sight of his father's situation made the son forget the inequality of
the contest which he was about to provoke.

"Villains," he said, "unhand him!" and rushing on the guards with his
drawn sword, compelled them to let go Sir Geoffrey, and stand on their own
defence.

Sir Geoffrey, thus far liberated, shouted to his lady. "Undo the belt,
dame, and we will have three good blows for it yet—they must fight
well that beat both father and son."

But one of those men who had started up from the writing-table when the
fray commenced, prevented Lady Peveril from rendering her husband this
assistance; while another easily mastered the hampered Knight, though not
without receiving several severe kicks from his heavy boots—his
condition permitting him no other mode of defence. A third, who saw that
Julian, young, active, and animated with the fury of a son who fights for
his parents, was compelling the two guards to give ground, seized on his
collar, and attempted to master his sword. Suddenly dropping that weapon,
and snatching one of his pistols, Julian fired it at the head of the
person by whom he was thus assailed. He did not drop, but, staggering back
as if he had received a severe blow, showed Peveril, as he sunk into a
chair, the features of old Bridgenorth, blackened with the explosion,
which had even set fire to a part of his grey hair. A cry of astonishment
escaped from Julian; and in the alarm and horror of the moment, he was
easily secured and disarmed by those with whom he had been at first
engaged.

"Heed it not, Julian," said Sir Geoffrey; "heed it not, my brave boy—that
shot has balanced all accounts!—but how—what the devil—he
lives!—Was your pistol loaded with chaff? or has the foul fiend
given him proof against lead?"

There was some reason for Sir Geoffrey's surprise, since, as he spoke,
Major Bridgenorth collected himself—sat up in the chair as one who
recovers from a stunning blow—then rose, and wiping with his
handkerchief the marks of the explosion from his face, he approached
Julian, and said, in the same cold unaltered tone in which he usually
expressed himself, "Young man, you have reason to bless God, who has this
day saved you from the commission of a great crime."

"Bless the devil, ye crop-eared knave!" exclaimed Sir Geoffrey; "for
nothing less than the father of all fanatics saved your brains from being
blown about like the rinsings of Beelzebub's porridge pot!"

"Sir Geoffrey," said Major Bridgenorth, "I have already told you, that
with you I will hold no argument; for to you I am not accountable for any
of my actions."

"Master Bridgenorth," said the lady, making a strong effort to speak, and
to speak with calmness, "whatever revenge your Christian state of
conscience may permit you to take on my husband—I—I, who have
some right to experience compassion at your hand, for most sincerely did I
compassionate you when the hand of Heaven was heavy on you—I implore
you not to involve my son in our common ruin!—Let the destruction of
the father and mother, with the ruin of our ancient house, satisfy your
resentment for any wrong which you have ever received at my husband's
hand."

"Hold your peace, housewife," said the Knight, "you speak like a fool, and
meddle with what concerns you not.—Wrong at my hand? The
cowardly knave has ever had but even too much right. Had I cudgelled the
cur soundly when he first bayed at me, the cowardly mongrel had been now
crouching at my feet, instead of flying at my throat. But if I get through
this action, as I have got through worse weather, I will pay off old
scores, as far as tough crab-tree and cold iron will bear me out."

"Sir Geoffrey," replied Bridgenorth, "if the birth you boast of has made
you blind to better principles, it might have at least taught you
civility. What do you complain of? I am a magistrate; and I execute a
warrant, addressed to me by the first authority in that state. I am a
creditor also of yours; and law arms me with powers to recover my own
property from the hands of an improvident debtor."

"You a magistrate!" said the Knight; "much such a magistrate as Noll was a
monarch. Your heart is up, I warrant, because you have the King's pardon;
and are replaced on the bench, forsooth, to persecute the poor Papist.
There was never turmoil in the state, but knaves had their vantage by it—never
pot boiled, but the scum was cast uppermost."

"For God's sake, my dearest husband," said Lady Peveril, "cease this wild
talk! It can but incense Master Bridgenorth, who might otherwise consider,
that in common charity——"

"Incense him!" said Sir Geoffrey, impatiently interrupting her;
"God's-death, madam, you will drive me mad! Have you lived so long in this
world, and yet expect consideration and charity from an old starved wolf
like that? And if he had it, do you think that I, or you, madam, as my
wife, are subjects for his charity?—Julian, my poor fellow, I am
sorry thou hast come so unluckily, since thy petronel was not better
loaded—but thy credit is lost for ever as a marksman."

This angry colloquy passed so rapidly on all sides, that Julian, scarce
recovered from the extremity of astonishment with which he was overwhelmed
at finding himself suddenly plunged into a situation of such extremity,
had no time to consider in what way he could most effectually act for the
succour of his parents. To speak to Bridgenorth fair seemed the more
prudent course; but to this his pride could hardly stoop; yet he forced
himself to say, with as much calmness as he could assume,

"Master Bridgenorth, since you act as a magistrate, I desire to be treated
according to the laws of England; and demand to know of what we are
accused, and by whose authority we are arrested?"

"Here is another howlet for ye!" exclaimed the impetuous old Knight; "his
mother speaks to a Puritan of charity; and thou must talk of law to a
round-headed rebel, with a wannion to you! What warrant hath he, think ye,
beyond the Parliament's or the devil's?"

"Who speaks of the Parliament?" said a person entering, whom Peveril
recognised as the official person whom he had before seen at the
horse-dealer's, and who now bustled in with all the conscious dignity of
plenary authority,—"Who talks of the Parliament?" he exclaimed. "I
promise you, enough has been found in this house to convict twenty
plotters—Here be arms, and that good store. Bring them in, Captain."

"The very same," exclaimed the Captain, approaching, "which I mention in
my printed Narrative of Information, lodged before the Honourable House of
Commons; they were commissioned from old Vander Huys of Rotterdam, by
orders of Don John of Austria, for the service of the Jesuits."

"Now, by this light," said Sir Geoffrey, "they are the pikes, musketoons,
and pistols, that have been hidden in the garret ever since Naseby fight!"

"And here," said the Captain's yoke-fellow, Everett, "are proper priest's
trappings—antiphoners, and missals, and copes, I warrant you—ay,
and proper pictures, too, for Papists to mutter and bow over."

"Now plague on thy snuffling whine," said Sir Geoffrey; "here is a rascal
will swear my grandmother's old farthingale to be priest's vestments, and
the story book of Owlenspiegel a Popish missal!"

"But how's this, Master Bridgenorth?" said Topham, addressing the
magistrate; "your honour has been as busy as we have; and you have caught
another knave while we recovered these toys."

"I think, sir," said Julian, "if you look into your warrant, which, if I
mistake not, names the persons whom you are directed to arrest, you will
find you have not title to apprehend me."

"Sir," said the officer, puffing with importance, "I do not know who you
are; but I would you were the best man in England, that I might teach you
the respect due to the warrant of the House. Sir, there steps not the man
within the British seas, but I will arrest him on authority of this bit of
parchment; and I do arrest you accordingly.—What do you accuse him
of, gentlemen?"

Dangerfield swaggered forward, and peeping under Julian's hat, "Stop my
vital breath," he exclaimed, "but I have seen you before, my friend, an I
could but think where; but my memory is not worth a bean, since I have
been obliged to use it so much of late, in the behalf of the poor state.
But I do know the fellow; and I have seen him amongst the Papists—,
I'll take that on my assured damnation."

"Why, Captain Dangerfield," said the Captain's smoother, but more
dangerous associate,—"verily, it is the same youth whom we saw at
the horse-merchant's yesterday; and we had matter against him then, only
Master Topham did not desire us to bring it out."

"Ye may bring out what ye will against him now," said Topham, "for he hath
blasphemed the warrant of the House. I think ye said ye saw him
somewhere."

"Ay, verily," said Everett, "I have seen him amongst the seminary pupils
at Saint Omer's—he was who but he with the regents there."

"Nay, Master Everett, collect yourself," said Topham; "for as I think, you
said you saw him at a consult of the Jesuits in London."

"It was I said so, Master Topham," said the undaunted Dangerfield; "and
mine is the tongue that will swear it."

"Good Master Topham," said Bridgenorth, "you may suspend farther inquiry
at present, as it doth but fatigue and perplex the memory of the King's
witnesses."

"You are wrong, Master Bridgenorth—clearly wrong. It doth but keep
them in wind—only breathes them like greyhounds before a coursing
match."

"Be it so," said Bridgenorth, with his usual indifference of manner; "but
at present this youth must stand committed upon a warrant, which I will
presently sign, of having assaulted me while in discharge of my duty as a
magistrate, for the rescue of a person legally attached. Did you not hear
the report of a pistol?"

"I will swear to it," said Everett.

"And I," said Dangerfield. "While we were making search in the cellar, I
heard something very like a pistol-shot; but I conceived it to be the
drawing of a long-corked bottle of sack, to see whether there were any
Popish relics in the inside on't."

"A pistol-shot!" exclaimed Topham; "here might have been a second Sir
Edmondsbury Godfrey's matter.—Oh, thou real spawn of the red old
dragon! for he too would have resisted the House's warrant, had we not
taken him something at unawares.—Master Bridgenorth, you are a
judicious magistrate, and a worthy servant of the state—I would we
had many such sound Protestant justices. Shall I have this young fellow
away with his parents—what think you?—or will you keep him for
re-examination?"

"Master Bridgenorth," said Lady Peveril, in spite of her husband's efforts
to interrupt her, "for God's sake, if ever you knew what it was to love
one of the many children you have lost, or her who is now left to you, do
not pursue your vengeance to the blood of my poor boy! I will forgive you
all the rest—all the distress you have wrought—all the yet
greater misery with which you threaten us; but do not be extreme with one
who never can have offended you! Believe, that if your ears are shut
against the cry of a despairing mother, those which are open to the
complaint of all who sorrow, will hear my petition and your answer!"

The agony of mind and of voice with which Lady Peveril uttered these
words, seemed to thrill through all present, though most of them were but
too much inured to such scenes. Every one was silent, when, ceasing to
speak, she fixed on Bridgenorth her eyes, glistening with tears, with the
eager anxiety of one whose life or death seemed to depend upon the answer
to be returned. Even Bridgenorth's inflexibility seemed to be shaken; and
his voice was tremulous, as he answered, "Madam, I would to God I had the
present means of relieving your great distress, otherwise than by
recommending to you a reliance upon Providence; and that you take heed to
your spirit, that it murmur not under this crook in your lot. For me, I am
but as a rod in the hand of the strong man, which smites not of itself,
but because it is wielded by the arm of him who holds the same."

"Even as I and my black rod are guided by the Commons of England," said
Master Topham, who seemed marvellously pleased with the illustration.

Julian now thought it time to say something in his own behalf; and he
endeavoured to temper it with as much composure as it was possible for him
to assume. "Master Bridgenorth," he said, "I neither dispute your
authority, nor this gentleman's warrant——"

"You do not?" said Topham. "Oh, ho, master youngster, I thought we should
bring you to your senses presently!"

"Then, if you so will it, Master Topham," said Bridgenorth, "thus it shall
be. You shall set out with early day, taking you, towards London, the
persons of Sir Geoffrey and Lady Peveril; and that they may travel
according to their quality, you will allow them their coach, sufficiently
guarded."

"I will travel with them myself," said Topham; "for these rough Derbyshire
roads are no easy riding; and my very eyes are weary with looking on these
bleak hills. In the coach I can sleep as sound as if I were in the House,
and Master Bodderbrains on his legs."

"It will become you so to take your ease, Master Topham," answered
Bridgenorth. "For this youth, I will take him under my charge, and bring
him up myself."

"I may not be answerable for that, worthy Master Bridgenorth," said
Topham, "since he comes within the warrant of the House."

"Nay, but," said Bridgenorth, "he is only under custody for an assault,
with the purpose of a rescue; and I counsel you against meddling with him,
unless you have stronger guard. Sir Geoffrey is now old and broken, but
this young fellow is in the flower of his youth, and hath at his beck all
the debauched young Cavaliers of the neighbourhood—You will scarce
cross the country without a rescue."

Topham eyed Julian wistfully, as a spider may be supposed to look upon a
stray wasp which has got into his web, and which he longs to secure,
though he fears the consequences of attempting him.

Julian himself replied, "I know not if this separation be well or ill
meant on your part, Master Bridgenorth; but on mine, I am only desirous to
share the fate of my parents; and therefore I will give my word of honour
to attempt neither rescue nor escape, on condition you do not separate me
from them."

"Do not say so, Julian," said his mother; "abide with Master Bridgenorth—my
mind tells me he cannot mean so ill by us as his rough conduct would now
lead us to infer."

"And I," said Sir Geoffrey, "know, that between the doors of my father's
house and the gates of hell, there steps not such a villain on the ground!
And if I wish my hands ever to be unbound again, it is because I hope for
one downright blow at a grey head, that has hatched more treason than the
whole Long Parliament."

"Away with thee," said the zealous officer; "is Parliament a word for so
foul a mouth as thine?—Gentlemen," he added, turning to Everett and
Dangerfield, "you will bear witness to this."

"To his having reviled the House of Commons—by G—d, that I
will!" said Dangerfield; "I will take it on my damnation."

"And verily," said Everett, "as he spoke of Parliament generally, he hath
contemned the House of Lords also."

"Why, ye poor insignificant wretches," said Sir Geoffrey, "whose very life
is a lie—and whose bread is perjury—would you pervert my
innocent words almost as soon as they have quitted my lips? I tell you the
country is well weary of you; and should Englishmen come to their senses,
the jail, the pillory, the whipping-post, and the gibbet, will be too good
preferment for such base blood-suckers.—And now, Master Bridgenorth,
you and they may do your worst; for I will not open my mouth to utter a
single word while I am in the company of such knaves."

"Perhaps, Sir Geoffrey," answered Bridgenorth, "you would better have
consulted your own safety in adopting that resolution a little sooner—the
tongue is a little member, but it causes much strife.—You, Master
Julian, will please to follow me, and without remonstrance or resistance;
for you must be aware that I have the means of compelling."

Julian was, indeed, but too sensible, that he had no other course but that
of submission to superior force; but ere he left the apartment, he kneeled
down to receive his father's blessing, which the old man bestowed not
without a tear in his eye, and in the emphatic words, "God bless thee, my
boy; and keep thee good and true to Church and King, whatever wind shall
bring foul weather!"

His mother was only able to pass her hand over his head, and to implore
him, in a low tone of voice, not to be rash or violent in any attempt to
render them assistance. "We are innocent," she said, "my son—we are
innocent—and we are in God's hands. Be the thought our best comfort
and protection."

Bridgenorth now signed to Julian to follow him, which he did, accompanied,
or rather conducted, by the two guards who had first disarmed him. When
they had passed from the apartment, and were at the door of the outward
hall, Bridgenorth asked Julian whether he should consider him as under
parole; in which case, he said, he would dispense with all other security
but his own promise.

Peveril, who could not help hoping somewhat from the favourable and
unresentful manner in which he was treated by one whose life he had so
recently attempted, replied, without hesitation, that he would give his
parole for twenty-four hours, neither to attempt to escape by force nor by
flight.

"It is wisely said," replied Bridgenorth; "for though you might cause
bloodshed, be assured that your utmost efforts could do no service to your
parents.—Horses there—horses to the courtyard!"

The trampling of horses was soon heard; and in obedience to Bridgenorth's
signal, and in compliance with his promise, Julian mounted one which was
presented to him, and prepared to leave the house of his fathers, in which
his parents were now prisoners, and to go, he knew not whither, under the
custody of one known to be the ancient enemy of his family. He was rather
surprised at observing, that Bridgenorth and he were about to travel
without any other attendants.

When they were mounted, and as they rode slowly towards the outer gate of
the courtyard, Bridgenorth said to him, "it is not every one who would
thus unreservedly commit his safety by travelling at night, and unaided,
with the hot-brained youth who so lately attempted his life."

"Master Bridgenorth," said Julian, "I might tell you truly, that I knew
you not at the time when I directed my weapon against you; but I must also
add, that the cause in which I used it, might have rendered me, even had I
known you, a slight respecter of your person. At present, I do know you;
and have neither malice against your person, nor the liberty of a parent
to fight for. Besides, you have my word; and when was a Peveril known to
break it?"

"Ay," replied his companion, "a Peveril—a Peveril of the Peak!—a
name which has long sounded like a war-trumpet in the land; but which has
now perhaps sounded its last loud note. Look back, young man, on the
darksome turrets of your father's house, which uplift themselves above the
sons of their people. Think upon your father, a captive—yourself in
some sort a fugitive—your light quenched—your glory abased—your
estate wrecked and impoverished. Think that Providence has subjected the
destinies of the race of Peveril to one, whom, in their aristocratic
pride, they held as a plebeian upstart. Think of this; and when you again
boast of your ancestry, remember, that he who raiseth the lowly can also
abase the high in heart."

Julian did indeed gaze for an instant, with a swelling heart, upon the
dimly seen turrets of his paternal mansion, on which poured the moonlight,
mixed with long shadows of the towers and trees. But while he sadly
acknowledged the truth of Bridgenorth's observation, he felt indignant at
his ill-timed triumph. "If fortune had followed worth," he said, "the
Castle of Martindale, and the name of Peveril, had afforded no room for
their enemy's vainglorious boast. But those who have stood high on
Fortune's wheel, must abide by the consequence of its revolutions. This
much I will at least say for my father's house, that it has not stood
unhonoured; nor will it fall—if it is to fall—unlamented.
Forbear, then, if you are indeed the Christian you call yourself, to exult
in the misfortunes of others, or to confide in your own prosperity. If the
light of our house be now quenched, God can rekindle it in His own good
time."

Peveril broke off in extreme surprise; for as he spake the last words, the
bright red beams of the family beacon began again to glimmer from its
wonted watch-tower, checkering the pale moonbeam with a ruddier glow.
Bridgenorth also gazed on this unexpected illumination with surprise, and
not, as it seemed, without disquietude. "Young man," he resumed, "it can
scarcely be but that Heaven intends to work great things by your hand, so
singularly has that augury followed on your words."

So saying, he put his horse once more in motion; and looking back, from
time to time, as if to assure himself that the beacon of the Castle was
actually rekindled, he led the way through the well-known paths and
alleys, to his own house of Moultrassie, followed by Peveril, who although
sensible that the light might be altogether accidental, could not but
receive as a good omen an event so intimately connected with the
traditions and usages of his family.

They alighted at the hall-door, which was hastily opened by a female; and
while the deep tone of Bridgenorth called on the groom to take their
horses, the well-known voice of his daughter Alice was heard to exclaim in
thanksgiving to God, who had restored her father in safety.

CHAPTER XXIV

We meet, as men see phantoms in a dream,
Which glide, and sigh, and sign, and move their lips,
But make no sound; or, if they utter voice,
'Tis but a low and undistinguish'd moaning,
Which has nor word nor sense of utter'd sound.
—THE CHIEFTAIN.

We said, at the conclusion of the last chapter, that a female form
appeared at the door of Moultrassie Hall; and that the well-known accents
of Alice Bridgenorth were heard to hail the return of her father, from
what she naturally dreaded as a perilous visit to the Castle of
Martindale.

Julian, who followed his conductor with a throbbing heart into the lighted
hall, was therefore prepared to see her whom he best loved, with her arms
thrown around her father. The instant she had quitted his paternal
embrace, she was aware of the unexpected guest who had returned in his
company. A deep blush, rapidly succeeded by a deadly paleness, and again
by a slighter suffusion, showed plainly to her lover that his sudden
appearance was anything but indifferent to her. He bowed profoundly—a
courtesy which she returned with equal formality, but did not venture to
approach more nearly, feeling at once the delicacy of his own situation
and of hers.

Major Bridgenorth turned his cold, fixed, grey, melancholy glance, first
on the one of them and then on the other. "Some," he said gravely, "would,
in my case, have avoided this meeting; but I have confidence in you both,
although you are young, and beset with the snares incidental to your age.
There are those within who should not know that ye have been acquainted.
Wherefore, be wise, and be as strangers to each other."

Julian and Alice exchanged glances as her father turned from them, and
lifting a lamp which stood in the entrance-hall, led the way to the
interior apartment. There was little of consolation in this exchange of
looks; for the sadness of Alice's glance was mingled with fear, and that
of Julian clouded by an anxious sense of doubt. The look also was but
momentary; for Alice, springing to her father, took the light out of his
hand, and stepping before him, acted as the usher of both into the large
oaken parlour, which has been already mentioned as the apartment in which
Bridgenorth had spent the hours of dejection which followed the death of
his consort and family. It was now lighted up as for the reception of
company; and five or six persons sat in it, in the plain, black, stiff
dress, which was affected by the formal Puritans of the time, in evidence
of their contempt of the manners of the luxurious Court of Charles the
Second; amongst whom, excess of extravagance in apparel, like excess of
every other kind, was highly fashionable.

Julian at first glanced his eyes but slightly along the range of grave and
severe faces which composed this society—men sincere, perhaps, in
their pretensions to a superior purity of conduct and morals, but in whom
that high praise was somewhat chastened by an affected austerity in dress
and manners, allied to those Pharisees of old, who made broad their
phylacteries, and would be seen of man to fast, and to discharge with
rigid punctuality the observances of the law. Their dress was almost
uniformly a black cloak and doublet, cut straight and close, and
undecorated with lace or embroidery of any kind, black Flemish breeches
and hose, square-toed shoes, with large roses made of serge ribbon. Two or
three had large loose boots of calf-leather, and almost every one was
begirt with a long rapier, which was suspended by leathern thongs, to a
plain belt of buff, or of black leather. One or two of the elder guests,
whose hair had been thinned by time, had their heads covered with a
skull-cap of black silk or velvet, which, being drawn down betwixt the
ears and the skull, and permitting no hair to escape, occasioned the
former to project in the ungraceful manner which may be remarked in old
pictures, and which procured for the Puritans the term of "prickeared
Roundheads," so unceremoniously applied to them by their contemporaries.

These worthies were ranged against the wall, each in his ancient
high-backed, long-legged chair; neither looking towards, nor apparently
discoursing with each other; but plunged in their own reflections, or
awaiting, like an assembly of Quakers, the quickening power of divine
inspiration.

Major Bridgenorth glided along this formal society with noiseless step,
and a composed severity of manner, resembling their own. He paused before
each in succession, and apparently communicated, as he passed, the
transactions of the evening, and the circumstances under which the heir of
Martindale Castle was now a guest at Moultrassie Hall. Each seemed to stir
at his brief detail, like a range of statues in an enchanted hall,
starting into something like life, as a talisman is applied to them
successively. Most of them, as they heard the narrative of their host,
cast upon Julian a look of curiosity, blended with haughty scorn and the
consciousness of spiritual superiority; though, in one or two instances,
the milder influences of compassion were sufficiently visible.—Peveril
would have undergone this gantlet of eyes with more impatience, had not
his own been for the time engaged in following the motions of Alice, who
glided through the apartment; and only speaking very briefly, and in
whispers, to one or two of the company who addressed her, took her place
beside a treble-hooded old lady, the only female of the party, and
addressed herself to her in such earnest conversation, as might dispense
with her raising her head, or looking at any others in the company.

Her father put a question, to which she was obliged to return an answer—"Where
was Mistress Debbitch?"

"She has gone out," Alice replied, "early after sunset, to visit some old
acquaintances in the neighbourhood, and she was not yet returned."

Major Bridgenorth made a gesture indicative of displeasure; and, not
content with that, expressed his determined resolution that Dame Deborah
should no longer remain a member of his family. "I will have those," he
said aloud, and without regarding the presence of his guests, "and those
only, around me, who know to keep within the sober and modest bounds of a
Christian family. Who pretends to more freedom, must go out from among us,
as not being of us."

A deep and emphatic humming noise, which was at that time the mode in
which the Puritans signified their applause, as well of the doctrines
expressed by a favourite divine in the pulpit, as of those delivered in
private society, ratified the approbation of the assessors, and seemed to
secure the dismission of the unfortunate governante, who stood thus
detected of having strayed out of bounds. Even Peveril, although he had
reaped considerable advantages, in his early acquaintance with Alice, from
the mercenary and gossiping disposition of her governess, could not hear
of her dismissal without approbation, so much was he desirous, that, in
the hour of difficulty which might soon approach, Alice might have the
benefit of countenance and advice from one of her own sex of better
manners, and less suspicious probity, than Mistress Debbitch.

Almost immediately after this communication had taken place, a servant in
mourning showed his thin, pinched, and wrinkled visage in the apartment,
announcing, with a voice more like a passing bell than the herald of a
banquet, that refreshments were provided in an adjoining apartment.
Gravely leading the way, with his daughter on one side, and the
puritanical female whom we have distinguished on the other, Bridgenorth
himself ushered his company, who followed, with little attention to order
or ceremony, into the eating-room, where a substantial supper was
provided.

In this manner, Peveril, although entitled according to ordinary
ceremonial, to some degree of precedence—a matter at that time
considered of much importance, although now little regarded—was left
among the last of those who quitted the parlour; and might indeed have
brought up the rear of all, had not one of the company, who was himself
late in the retreat, bowed and resigned to Julian the rank in the company
which had been usurped by others.

This act of politeness naturally induced Julian to examine the features of
the person who had offered him this civility; and he started to observe,
under the pinched velvet cap, and above the short band-strings, the
countenance of Ganlesse, as he called himself—his companion on the
preceding evening. He looked again and again, especially when all were
placed at the supper board, and when, consequently, he had frequent
opportunities of observing this person fixedly without any breach of good
manners. At first he wavered in his belief, and was much inclined to doubt
the reality of his recollection; for the difference of dress was such as
to effect a considerable change of appearance; and the countenance itself,
far from exhibiting anything marked or memorable, was one of those
ordinary visages which we see almost without remarking them, and which
leave our memory so soon as the object is withdrawn from our eyes. But the
impression upon his mind returned, and became stronger, until it induced
him to watch with peculiar attention the manners of the individual who had
thus attracted his notice.

During the time of a very prolonged grace before meat, which was delivered
by one of the company—who, from his Geneva band and serge doublet,
presided, as Julian supposed, over some dissenting congregation—he
noticed that this man kept the same demure and severe cast of countenance
usually affected by the Puritans, and which rather caricatured the
reverence unquestionably due upon such occasions. His eyes were turned
upward, and his huge penthouse hat, with a high crown and broad brim, held
in both hands before him, rose and fell with the cadences of the speaker's
voice; thus marking time, as it were, to the periods of the benediction.
Yet when the slight bustle took place which attends the adjusting of
chairs, &c., as men sit down to table, Julian's eye encountered that
of the stranger; and as their looks met, there glanced from those of the
latter an expression of satirical humour and scorn, which seemed to
intimate internal ridicule of the gravity of his present demeanour.

Julian again sought to fix his eye, in order to ascertain that he had not
mistaken the tendency of this transient expression, but the stranger did
not allow him another opportunity. He might have been discovered by the
tone of his voice; but the individual in question spoke little, and in
whispers, which was indeed the fashion of the whole company, whose
demeanour at table resembled that of mourners at a funeral feast.

The entertainment itself was coarse, though plentiful; and must, according
to Julian's opinion, be distasteful to one so exquisitely skilled in good
cheer, and so capable of enjoying, critically and scientifically, the
genial preparations of his companion Smith, as Ganlesse had shown himself
on the preceding evening. Accordingly, upon close observation, he remarked
that the food which he took upon his plate remained there unconsumed; and
that his actual supper consisted only of a crust of bread, with a glass of
wine.

The repast was hurried over with the haste of those who think it shame, if
not sin, to make mere animal enjoyments the means of consuming time, or of
receiving pleasure; and when men wiped their mouths and moustaches, Julian
remarked that the object of his curiosity used a handkerchief of the
finest cambric—an article rather inconsistent with the exterior
plainness, not to say coarseness, of his appearance. He used also several
of the more minute refinements, then only observed at tables of the higher
rank; and Julian thought he could discern, at every turn, something of
courtly manners and gestures, under the precise and rustic simplicity of
the character which he had assumed.[*]

[*] A Scottish gentleman in hiding, as it was emphatically termed,
for some concern in a Jacobite insurrection or plot, was
discovered among a number of ordinary persons, by the use of his
toothpick.

But if this were indeed that same Ganlesse with whom Julian had met on the
preceding evening, and who had boasted the facility with which he could
assume any character which he pleased to represent for the time, what
could be the purpose of this present disguise? He was, if his own words
could be credited, a person of some importance, who dared to defy the
danger of those officers and informers, before whom all ranks at that time
trembled; nor was he likely, as Julian conceived, without some strong
purpose, to subject himself to such a masquerade as the present, which
could not be otherwise than irksome to one whose conversation proclaimed
him of light life and free opinions. Was his appearance here for good or
for evil? Did it respect his father's house, or his own person, or the
family of Bridgenorth? Was the real character of Ganlesse known to the
master of the house, inflexible as he was in all which concerned morals as
well as religion? If not, might not the machinations of a brain so subtile
affect the peace and happiness of Alice Bridgenorth?

These were questions which no reflection could enable Peveril to answer.
His eyes glanced from Alice to the stranger; and new fears, and undefined
suspicions, in which the safety of that beloved and lovely girl was
implicated, mingled with the deep anxiety which already occupied his mind,
on account of his father and his father's house.

He was in this tumult of mind, when after a thanksgiving as long as the
grace, the company arose from table, and were instantly summoned to the
exercise of family worship. A train of domestics, grave, sad, and
melancholy as their superiors, glided in to assist at this act of
devotion, and ranged themselves at the lower end of the apartment. Most of
these men were armed with long tucks, as the straight stabbing swords,
much used by Cromwell's soldiery, were then called. Several had large
pistols also; and the corselets or cuirasses of some were heard to clank,
as they seated themselves to partake in this act of devotion. The ministry
of him whom Julian had supposed a preacher was not used on this occasion.
Major Bridgenorth himself read and expounded a chapter of Scripture, with
much strength and manliness of expression, although so as not to escape
the charge of fanaticism. The nineteenth chapter of Jeremiah was the
portion of Scripture which he selected; in which, under the type of
breaking a potter's vessel, the prophet presages the desolation of the
Jews. The lecturer was not naturally eloquent; but a strong, deep, and
sincere conviction of the truth of what he said supplied him with language
of energy and fire, as he drew parallel between the abominations of the
worship of Baal, and the corruptions of the Church of Rome—so
favourite a topic with the Puritans of that period; and denounced against
the Catholics, and those who favoured them, that hissing and desolation
which the prophet directed against the city of Jerusalem. His hearers made
a yet closer application than the lecturer himself suggested; and many a
dark proud eye intimated, by a glance on Julian, that on his father's
house were already, in some part, realised those dreadful maledictions.

The lecture finished, Bridgenorth summoned them to unite with him in
prayer; and on a slight change of arrangements amongst the company, which
took place as they were about to kneel down, Julian found his place next
to the single-minded and beautiful object of his affection, as she knelt,
in her loveliness, to adore her Creator. A short time was permitted for
mental devotion; during which Peveril could hear her half-breathed
petition for the promised blessings of peace on earth, and good-will
towards the children of men.

The prayer which ensued was in a different tone. It was poured forth by
the same person who had officiated as chaplain at the table; and was in
the tone of a Boanerges, or Son of Thunder—a denouncer of crimes—an
invoker of judgments—almost a prophet of evil and of destruction.
The testimonies and the sins of the day were not forgotten—the
mysterious murder of Sir Edmondsbury Godfrey was insisted upon—and
thanks and praise were offered, that the very night on which they were
assembled, had not seen another offering of a Protestant magistrate, to
the bloodthirsty fury of revengeful Catholics.

Never had Julian found it more difficult, during an act of devotion, to
maintain his mind in a frame befitting the posture and the occasion; and
when he heard the speaker return thanks for the downfall and devastation
of his family, he was strongly tempted to have started upon his feet, and
charged him with offering a tribute, stained with falsehood and calumny,
at the throne of truth itself. He resisted, however, an impulse which it
would have been insanity to have yielded to, and his patience was not
without its reward; for when his fair neighbour arose from her knees, the
lengthened and prolonged prayer being at last concluded, he observed that
her eyes were streaming with tears; and one glance with which she looked
at him in that moment, showed more of affectionate interest for him in his
fallen fortunes and precarious condition, than he had been able to obtain
from her when his worldly estate seemed so much the more exalted of the
two.

Cheered and fortified with the conviction that one bosom in the company,
and that in which he most eagerly longed to secure an interest,
sympathised with his distress, he felt strong to endure whatever was to
follow, and shrunk not from the stern still smile with which, one by one,
the meeting regarded him, as, gliding to their several places of repose,
they indulged themselves at parting with a look of triumph on one whom
they considered as their captive enemy.

Alice also passed by her lover, her eyes fixed on the ground, and answered
his low obeisance without raising them. The room was now empty, but for
Bridgenorth and his guest, or prisoner; for it is difficult to say in
which capacity Peveril ought to regard himself. He took an old brazen lamp
from the table, and, leading the way, said at the same time, "I must be
the uncourtly chamberlain, who am to usher you to a place of repose, more
rude, perhaps, than you have been accustomed to occupy."

Julian followed him, in silence, up an old-fashioned winding staircase,
within a turret. At the landing-place on the top was a small apartment,
where an ordinary pallet bed, two chairs, and a small stone table, were
the only furniture. "Your bed," continued Bridgenorth, as if desirous to
prolong their interview, "is not of the softest; but innocence sleeps as
sound upon straw as on down."

"Sorrow, Major Bridgenorth, finds little rest on either," replied Julian.
"Tell me, for you seem to await some question from me, what is to be the
fate of my parents, and why you separate me from them?"

Bridgenorth, for answer, indicated with his finger the mark which his
countenance still showed from the explosion of Julian's pistol.

"That," replied Julian, "is not the real cause of your proceedings against
me. It cannot be, that you, who have been a soldier, and are a man, can be
surprised or displeased by my interference in the defence of my father.
Above all, you cannot, and I must needs say you do not, believe that I
would have raised my hand against you personally, had there been a
moment's time for recognition."

"I may grant all this," said Bridgenorth; "but what the better are you for
my good opinion, or for the ease with which I can forgive you the injury
which you aimed at me? You are in my custody as a magistrate, accused of
abetting the foul, bloody, and heathenish plot, for the establishment of
Popery, the murder of the King, and the general massacre of all true
Protestants."

"And on what grounds, either of fact or suspicion, dare any one accuse me
of such a crime?" said Julian. "I have hardly heard of the plot, save by
the mouth of common rumour, which, while it speaks of nothing else, takes
care to say nothing distinctly even on that subject."

"It may be enough for me to tell you," replied Bridgenorth, "and perhaps
it is a word too much—that you are a discovered intriguer—a
spied spy—who carries tokens and messages betwixt the Popish
Countess of Derby and the Catholic party in London. You have not conducted
your matters with such discretion, but that this is well known, and can be
sufficiently proved. To this charge, which you are well aware you cannot
deny, these men, Everett and Dangerfield, are not unwilling to add, from
the recollection of your face, other passages, which will certainly cost
you your life when you come before a Protestant jury."

"They lie like villains," said Peveril, "who hold me accessory to any plot
either against the King, the nation, or the state of religion; and for the
Countess, her loyalty has been too long, and too highly proved, to permit
her being implicated in such injurious suspicions."

"What she has already done," said Bridgenorth, his face darkening as he
spoke, "against the faithful champions of pure religion, hath sufficiently
shown of what she is capable. She hath betaken herself to her rock, and
sits, as she thinks, in security, like the eagle reposing after his bloody
banquet. But the arrow of the fowler may yet reach her—the shaft is
whetted—the bow is bended—and it will be soon seen whether
Amalek or Israel shall prevail. But for thee, Julian Peveril—why
should I conceal it from thee?—my heart yearns for thee as a woman's
for her first-born. To thee I will give, at the expense of my own
reputation—perhaps at the risk of personal suspicion—for who,
in these days of doubt, shall be exempted from it—to thee, I say, I
will give means of escape, which else were impossible to thee. The
staircase of this turret descends to the gardens—the postern-gate is
unlatched—on the right hand lie the stables, where you will find
your own horse—take it, and make for Liverpool—I will give you
credit with a friend under the name of Simon Simonson, one persecuted by
the prelates; and he will expedite your passage from the kingdom."

"Major Bridgenorth," said Julian, "I will not deceive you. Were I to
accept your offer of freedom, it would be to attend to a higher call than
that of mere self-preservation. My father is in danger—my mother in
sorrow—the voices of religion and nature call me to their side. I am
their only child—their only hope—I will aid them, or perish
with them!"

"Thou art mad," said Bridgenorth—"aid them thou canst not—perish
with them thou mayst, and even accelerate their ruin; for, in addition to
the charges with which thy unhappy father is loaded, it would be no slight
aggravation, that while he meditated arming and calling together the
Catholics and High Churchmen of Cheshire and Derbyshire, his son should
prove to be the confidential agent of the Countess of Derby, who aided her
in making good her stronghold against the Protestant commissioners, and
was despatched by her to open secret communication with the Popish
interest in London."

"You have twice stated me as such an agent," said Peveril, resolved that
his silence should not be construed into an admission of the charge,
though he felt it was in some degree well founded—"What reason have
you for such an allegation?"

"Will it suffice for a proof of my intimate acquaintance with your
mystery," replied Bridgenorth, "if I should repeat to you the last words
which the Countess used to you when you left the Castle of that
Amalekitish woman? Thus she spoke: 'I am now a forlorn widow,' she said,
'whom sorrow has made selfish.'"

Peveril started, for these were the very words the Countess had used; but
he instantly recovered himself, and replied, "Be your information of what
nature it will, I deny, and I defy it, so far as it attaches aught like
guilt to me. There lives not a man more innocent of a disloyal thought, or
of a traitorous purpose. What I say for myself, I will, to the best of my
knowledge, say and maintain on account of the noble Countess, to whom I am
indebted for nurture."

"Perish, then, in thy obstinacy!" said Bridgenorth; and turning hastily
from him, he left the room, and Julian heard him hasten down the narrow
staircase, as if distrusting his own resolution.

With a heavy heart, yet with that confidence in an overruling Providence
which never forsakes a good and brave man, Peveril betook himself to his
lowly place of repose.

CHAPTER XXV

The course of human life is changeful still,
As is the fickle wind and wandering rill;
Or, like the light dance which the wild-breeze weaves
Amidst the fated race of fallen leaves;
Which now its breath bears down, now tosses high,
Beats to the earth, or wafts to middle sky.
Such, and so varied, the precarious play
Of fate with man, frail tenant of a day!
—ANONYMOUS.

Whilst, overcome with fatigue, and worn out by anxiety, Julian Peveril
slumbered as a prisoner in the house of his hereditary enemy, Fortune was
preparing his release by one of those sudden frolics with which she loves
to confound the calculations and expectancies of humanity; and as she
fixes on strange agents for such purposes, she condescended to employ on
the present occasion, no less a personage than Mistress Deborah Debbitch.

Instigated, doubtless, by the pristine reminiscences of former times, no
sooner had that most prudent and considerate dame found herself in the
vicinity of the scenes of her earlier days, than she bethought herself of
a visit to the ancient house-keeper of Martindale Castle, Dame Ellesmere
by name, who, long retired from active service, resided at the keeper's
lodge, in the west thicket, with her nephew, Lance Outram, subsisting upon
the savings of her better days, and on a small pension allowed by Sir
Geoffrey to her age and faithful services.

Now Dame Ellesmere and Mistress Deborah had not by any means been formerly
on so friendly a footing, as this haste to visit her might be supposed to
intimate. But years had taught Deborah to forget and forgive; or perhaps
she had no special objection, under cover of a visit to Dame Ellesmere, to
take the chance of seeing what changes time had made on her old admirer
the keeper. Both inhabitants were in the cottage when, after having seen
her master set forth on his expedition to the Castle, Mistress Debbitch,
dressed in her very best gown, footed it through gutter, and over stile,
and by pathway green, to knock at their door, and to lift the hatch at the
hospitable invitation which bade her come in.

Dame Ellesmere's eyes were so often dim, that, even with the aid of
spectacles, she failed to recognise, in the portly and mature personage
who entered their cottage, the tight well-made lass, who, presuming on her
good looks and flippant tongue, had so often provoked her by
insubordination; and her former lover, the redoubted Lance, not being
conscious that ale had given rotundity to his own figure, which was
formerly so slight and active, and that brandy had transferred to his nose
the colour which had once occupied his cheeks, was unable to discover that
Deborah's French cap, composed of sarsenet and Brussels lace, shaded the
features which had so often procured him a rebuke from Dr. Dummerar, for
suffering his eyes, during the time of prayers, to wander to the
maid-servants' bench.

In brief, the blushing visitor was compelled to make herself known; and
when known, was received by aunt and nephew with the most sincere
cordiality.

The home-brewed was produced; and, in lieu of more vulgar food, a few
slices of venison presently hissed in the frying pan, giving strong room
for inference that Lance Outram, in his capacity of keeper, neglected not
his own cottage when he supplied the larder at the Castle. A modest sip of
the excellent Derbyshire ale, and a taste of the highly-seasoned hash,
soon placed Deborah entirely at home with her old acquaintance.

Having put all necessary questions, and received all suitable answers,
respecting the state of the neighbourhood, and such of her own friends as
continued to reside there, the conversation began rather to flag, until
Deborah found the art of again re-newing its interest, by communicating to
her friends the dismal intelligence that they must soon look for deadly
bad news from the Castle; for that her present master, Major Bridgenorth,
had been summoned, by some great people from London, to assist in taking
her old master, Sir Geoffrey; and that all Master Bridgenorth's servants,
and several other persons whom she named, friends and adherents of the
same interest, had assembled a force to surprise the Castle; and that as
Sir Geoffrey was now so old, and gouty withal, it could not be expected he
should make the defence he was wont; and then he was known to be so
stout-hearted, that it was not to be supposed that he would yield up
without stroke of sword; and then if he was killed, as he was like to be,
amongst them that liked never a bone of his body, and now had him at their
mercy, why, in that case, she, Dame Deborah, would look upon Lady Peveril
as little better than a dead woman; and undoubtedly there would be a
general mourning through all that country, where they had such great kin;
and silks were likely to rise on it, as Master Lutestring, the mercer of
Chesterfield, was like to feel in his purse bottom. But for her part, let
matters wag how they would, an if Master Julian Peveril was to come to his
own, she could give as near a guess as e'er another who was likely to be
Lady at Martindale.

The text of this lecture, or, in other words, the fact that Bridgenorth
was gone with a party to attack Sir Geoffrey Peveril in his own Castle of
Martindale, sounded so stunningly strange in the ears of those old
retainers of his family, that they had no power either to attend to
Mistress Deborah's inferences, or to interrupt the velocity of speech with
which she poured them forth. And when at length she made a breathless
pause, all that poor Dame Ellesmere could reply, was the emphatic
question, "Bridgenorth brave Peveril of the Peak!—Is the woman mad?"

"Come, come, dame," said Deborah, "woman me no more than I woman you. I
have not been called Mistress at the head of the table for so many years,
to be woman'd here by you. And for the news, it is as true as that you are
sitting there in a white hood, who will wear a black one ere long."

"Lance Outram," said the old woman, "make out, if thou be'st a man, and
listen about if aught stirs up at the Castle."

"If there should," said Outram, "I am even too long here;" and he caught
up his crossbow, and one or two arrows, and rushed out of the cottage.

"Well-a-day!" said Mistress Deborah, "see if my news have not frightened
away Lance Outram too, whom they used to say nothing could start. But do
not take on so, dame; for I dare say if the Castle and the lands pass to
my new master, Major Bridgenorth, as it is like they will—for I have
heard that he has powerful debts over the estate—you shall have my
good word with him, and I promise you he is no bad man; something precise
about preaching and praying, and about the dress which one should wear,
which, I must own, beseems not a gentleman, as, to be sure, every woman
knows best what becomes her. But for you, dame, that wear a prayer-book at
your girdle, with your housewife-case, and never change the fashion of
your white hood, I dare say he will not grudge you the little matter you
need, and are not able to win."

"Out, sordid jade!" exclaimed Dame Ellesmere, her very flesh quivering
betwixt apprehension and anger, "and hold your peace this instant, or I
will find those that shall flay the very hide from thee with dog-whips.
Hast thou ate thy noble master's bread, not only to betray his trust, and
fly from his service, but wouldst thou come here, like an ill-omened bird
as thou art, to triumph over his downfall?"

"Nay, dame," said Deborah, over whom the violence of the old woman had
obtained a certain predominance; "it is not I that say it—only the
warrant of the Parliament folks."

"I thought we had done with their warrants ever since the blessed
twenty-ninth of May," said the old housekeeper of Martindale Castle; "but
this I tell thee, sweetheart, that I have seen such warrants crammed, at
the sword's point, down the throats of them that brought them; and so
shall this be, if there is one true man left to drink of the Dove."

As she spoke, Lance Outram re-entered the cottage. "Naunt," he said in
dismay, "I doubt it is true what she says. The beacon tower is as black as
my belt. No Pole-star of Peveril. What does that betoken?"

"Death, ruin, and captivity," exclaimed old Ellesmere. "Make for the
Castle, thou knave. Thrust in thy great body. Strike for the house that
bred thee and fed thee; and if thou art buried under the ruins, thou diest
a man's death."

"Nay, naunt, I shall not be slack," answered Outram. "But here come folks
that I warrant can tell us more on't."

One or two of the female servants, who had fled from the Castle during the
alarm, now rushed in with various reports of the case; but all agreeing
that a body of armed men were in possession of the Castle, and that Major
Bridgenorth had taken young Master Julian prisoner, and conveyed him down
to Moultrassie Hall, with his feet tied under the belly of the nag—a
shameful sight to be seen—and he so well born and so handsome.

Lance scratched his head; and though feeling the duty incumbent upon him
as a faithful servant, which was indeed specially dinned into him by the
cries and exclamations of his aunt, he seemed not a little dubious how to
conduct himself. "I would to God, naunt," he said at last, "that old
Whitaker were alive now, with his long stories about Marston Moor and Edge
Hill, that made us all yawn our jaws off their hinges, in spite of broiled
rashers and double beer! When a man is missed, he is moaned, as they say;
and I would rather than a broad piece he had been here to have sorted this
matter, for it is clean out of my way as a woodsman, that have no skill of
war. But dang it, if old Sir Geoffrey go to the wall without a knock for
it!—Here you, Nell"—(speaking to one of the fugitive maidens
from the Castle)—"but, no—you have not the heart of a cat, and
are afraid of your own shadow by moonlight—But, Cis, you are a
stout-hearted wench, and know a buck from a bullfinch. Hark thee, Cis, as
you would wish to be married, get up to the Castle again, and get thee in—thou
best knowest where—for thou hast oft gotten out of postern to a
dance or junketing, to my knowledge—Get thee back to the Castle, as
ye hope to be married—See my lady—they cannot hinder thee of
that—my lady has a head worth twenty of ours—If I am to gather
force, light up the beacon for a signal; and spare not a tar barrel on't.
Thou mayst do it safe enough. I warrant the Roundheads busy with drink and
plunder.—And, hark thee, say to my lady I am gone down to the
miners' houses at Bonadventure. The rogues were mutinying for their wages
but yesterday; they will be all ready for good or bad. Let her send orders
down to me; or do you come yourself, your legs are long enough."

"Whether they are or not, Master Lance (and you know nothing of the
matter), they shall do your errand to-night, for love of the old knight
and his lady."

So Cisly Sellok, a kind of Derbyshire Camilla, who had won the smock at
the foot-race at Ashbourne, sprung forward towards the Castle with a speed
which few could have equalled.

"There goes a mettled wench," said Lance; "and now, naunt, give me the old
broadsword—it is above the bed-head—and my wood-knife; and I
shall do well enough."

"And what is to become of me?" bleated the unfortunate Mistress Deborah
Debbitch.

"You must remain here with my aunt, Mistress Deb; and, for old
acquaintance' sake, she will take care no harm befalls you; but take heed
how you attempt to break bounds."

So saying, and pondering in his own mind the task which he had undertaken,
the hardy forester strode down the moonlight glade, scarcely hearing the
blessings and cautions which Dame Ellesmere kept showering after him. His
thoughts were not altogether warlike. "What a tight ankle the jade hath!—she
trips it like a doe in summer over dew. Well, but here are the huts—Let
us to this gear.—Are ye all asleep, you dammers, sinkers, and
drift-drivers? turn out, ye subterranean badgers. Here is your master, Sir
Geoffrey, dead, for aught ye know or care. Do not you see the beacon is
unlit, and you sit there like so many asses?"

"Why," answered one of the miners, who now began to come out of their huts—

"An he be dead,
He will eat no more bread."

"And you are like to eat none neither," said Lance; "for the works will be
presently stopped, and all of you turned off."

"Well, and what of it, Master Lance? As good play for nought as work for
nought. Here is four weeks we have scarce seen the colour of Sir
Geoffrey's coin; and you ask us to care whether he be dead or in life? For
you, that goes about, trotting upon your horse, and doing for work what
all men do for pleasure, it may be well enough; but it is another matter
to be leaving God's light, and burrowing all day and night in darkness,
like a toad in a hole—that's not to be done for nought, I trow; and
if Sir Geoffrey is dead, his soul will suffer for't; and if he's alive,
we'll have him in the Barmoot Court."

"Hark ye, gaffer," said Lance, "and take notice, my mates, all of you,"
for a considerable number of these rude and subterranean people had now
assembled to hear the discussion—"Has Sir Geoffrey, think you, ever
put a penny in his pouch out of this same Bonadventure mine?"

"I cannot say as I think he has," answered old Ditchley, the party who
maintained the controversy.

"Answer on your conscience, though it be but a leaden one. Do not you know
that he hath lost a good penny?"

"Why, I believe he may," said Gaffer Ditchley. "What then!—lose
to-day, win to-morrow—the miner must eat in the meantime."

"True; but what will you eat when Master Bridgenorth gets the land, that
will not hear of a mine being wrought on his own ground? Will he work on
at dead loss, think ye?" demanded trusty Lance.

"Bridgenorth?—he of Moultrassie Hall, that stopped the great
Felicity Work, on which his father laid out, some say, ten thousand
pounds, and never got in a penny? Why, what has he to do with Sir
Geoffrey's property down here at Bonadventure? It was never his, I trow."

"Nay, what do I know?" answered Lance, who saw the impression he had made.
"Law and debt will give him half Derbyshire, I think, unless you stand by
old Sir Geoffrey."

"But if Sir Geoffrey be dead," said Ditchley cautiously, "what good will
our standing by do to him?"

"I did not say he was dead, but only as bad as dead; in the hands of the
Roundheads—a prisoner up yonder, at his own Castle," said Lance;
"and will have his head cut off, like the good Earl of Derby's at
Bolton-le-Moors."

"Nay, then, comrades," said Gaffer Ditchley, "an it be as Master Lance
says, I think we should bear a hand for stout old Sir Geoffrey, against a
low-born mean-spirited fellow like Bridgenorth, who shut up a shaft had
cost thousands, without getting a penny profit on't. So hurra for Sir
Geoffrey, and down with the Rump! But hold ye a blink—hold"—(and
the waving of his hand stopped the commencing cheer)—"Hark ye,
Master Lance, it must be all over, for the beacon is as black as night;
and you know yourself that marks the Lord's death."

"It will kindle again in an instant," said Lance; internally adding, "I
pray to God it may!—It will kindle in an instant—lack of fuel,
and the confusion of the family."

"Ay, like enow, like enow," said Ditchley; "but I winna budge till I see
it blazing."

"Why then, there a-goes!" said Lance. "Thank thee, Cis—thank thee,
my good wench.—Believe your own eyes, my lads, if you will not
believe me; and now hurra for Peveril of the Peak—the King and his
friends—and down with Rumps and Roundheads!"

The sudden rekindling of the beacon had all the effect which Lance could
have desired upon the minds of his rude and ignorant hearers, who, in
their superstitious humour, had strongly associated the Polar-star of
Peveril with the fortunes of the family. Once moved, according to the
national character of their countrymen, they soon became enthusiastic; and
Lance found himself at the head of thirty stout fellows and upwards, armed
with their pick-axes, and ready to execute whatever task he should impose
on them.

Trusting to enter the Castle by the postern, which had served to
accommodate himself and other domestics upon an emergency, his only
anxiety was to keep his march silent; and he earnestly recommended to his
followers to reserve their shouts for the moment of the attack. They had
not advanced far on their road to the Castle, when Cisly Sellok met them
so breathless with haste, that the poor girl was obliged to throw herself
into Master Lance's arms.

"Stand up, my mettled wench," said he, giving her a sly kiss at the same
time, "and let us know what is going on up at the Castle."

"My lady bids you, as you would serve God and your master, not to come up
to the Castle, which can but make bloodshed; for she says Sir Geoffrey is
lawfully in hand, and that he must bide the issue; and that he is innocent
of what he is charged with, and is going up to speak for himself before
King and Council, and she goes up with him. And besides, they have found
out the postern, the Roundhead rogues; for two of them saw me when I went
out of door, and chased me; but I showed them a fair pair of heels."

"As ever dashed dew from the cowslip," said Lance. "But what the foul
fiend is to be done? for if they have secured the postern, I know not how
the dickens we can get in."

"All is fastened with bolt and staple, and guarded with gun and pistol, at
the Castle," quoth Cisly; "and so sharp are they, that they nigh caught me
coming with my lady's message, as I told you. But my lady says, if you
could deliver her son, Master Julian, from Bridgenorth, that she would
hold it good service."

"What!" said Lance, "is young master at the Castle? I taught him to shoot
his first shaft. But how to get in!"

"He was at the Castle in the midst of the ruffle, but old Bridgenorth has
carried him down prisoner to the hall," answered Cisly. "There was never
faith nor courtesy in an old Puritan who never had pipe and tabor in his
house since it was built."

"Or who stopped a promising mine," said Ditchley, "to save a few thousand
pounds, when he might have made himself as rich as Lord of Chatsworth, and
fed a hundred good fellows all the whilst."

"Why, then," said Lance, "since you are all of a mind, we will go draw the
cover for the old badger; and I promise you that the Hall is not like one
of your real houses of quality where the walls are as thick as
whinstone-dikes, but foolish brick-work, that your pick-axes will work
through as if it were cheese. Huzza once more for Peveril of the Peak!
down with Bridgenorth, and all upstart cuckoldly Roundheads!"

Having indulged the throats of his followers with one buxom huzza, Lance
commanded them to cease their clamours, and proceeded to conduct them, by
such paths as seemed the least likely to be watched, to the courtyard of
Moultrassie Hall. On the road they were joined by several stout yeoman
farmers, either followers of the Peveril family, or friends to the High
Church and Cavalier party; most of whom, alarmed by the news which began
to fly fast through the neighbourhood, were armed with sword and pistol.

Lance Outram halted his party, at the distance, as he himself described
it, of a flight-shot from the house, and advanced, alone, and in silence,
to reconnoitre; and having previously commanded Ditchley and his
subterranean allies to come to his assistance whenever he should whistle,
he crept cautiously forward, and soon found that those whom he came to
surprise, true to the discipline which had gained their party such decided
superiority during the Civil War, had posted a sentinel, who paced through
the courtyard, piously chanting a psalm-tune, while his arms, crossed on
his bosom, supported a gun of formidable length.

"Now, a true solder," said Lance Outram to himself, "would put a stop to
thy snivelling ditty, by making a broad arrow quiver in your heart, and no
great alarm given. But, dang it, I have not the right spirit for a soldier—I
cannot fight a man till my blood's up; and for shooting him from behind a
wall it is cruelly like to stalking a deer. I'll e'en face him, and try
what to make of him."

With this doughty resolution, and taking no farther care to conceal
himself, he entered the courtyard boldly, and was making forward to the
front door of the hall, as a matter of course. But the old Cromwellian,
who was on guard, had not so learned his duty. "Who goes there?—Stand,
friend—stand; or, verily, I will shoot thee to death!" were
challenges which followed each other quick, the last being enforced by the
levelling and presenting the said long-barrelled gun with which he was
armed.

"Why, what a murrain!" answered Lance. "Is it your fashion to go
a-shooting at this time o' night? Why, this is but a time for
bat-fowling."

"Nay, but hark thee, friend," said the experienced sentinel, "I am none of
those who do this work negligently. Thou canst not snare me with thy
crafty speech, though thou wouldst make it to sound simple in mine ear. Of
a verity I will shoot, unless thou tell thy name and business."

"Name!" said Lance; "why, what a dickens should it be but Robin Round—honest
Robin of Redham; and for business, an you must needs know, I come on a
message from some Parliament man, up yonder at the Castle, with letters
for worshipful Master Bridgenorth of Moultrassie Hall; and this be the
place, as I think; though why ye be marching up and down at his door, like
the sign of a Red Man, with your old firelock there, I cannot so well
guess."

"Give me the letters, my friend," said the sentinel, to whom this
explanation seemed very natural and probable, "and I will cause them
forthwith to be delivered into his worship's own hand."

Rummaging in his pockets, as if to pull out the letters which never
existed, Master Lance approached within the sentinel's piece, and, before
he was aware, suddenly seized him by the collar, whistled sharp and
shrill, and exerting his skill as a wrestler, for which he had been
distinguished in his youth, he stretched his antagonist on his back—the
musket for which they struggled going off in the fall.

The miners rushed into the courtyard at Lance's signal; and hopeless any
longer of prosecuting his design in silence, Lance commanded two of them
to secure the prisoner, and the rest to cheer loudly, and attack the door
of the house. Instantly the courtyard of the mansion rang with the cry of
"Peveril of the Peak for ever!" with all the abuse which the Royalists had
invented to cast upon the Roundheads, during so many years of contention;
and at the same time, while some assailed the door with their mining
implements, others directed their attack against the angle, where a kind
of porch joined to the main front of the building; and there, in some
degree protected by the projection of the wall, and of a balcony which
overhung the porch, wrought in more security, as well as with more effect,
than the others; for the doors being of oak, thickly studded with nails,
offered a more effectual resistance to violence than the brick-work.

The noise of this hubbub on the outside, soon excited wild alarm and
tumult within. Lights flew from window to window, and voices were heard
demanding the cause of the attack; to which the party cries of those who
were in the courtyard afforded a sufficient, or at least the only answer,
which was vouchsafed. At length the window of a projecting staircase
opened, and the voice of Bridgenorth himself demanded authoritatively what
the tumult meant, and commanded the rioters to desist, upon their own
proper and immediate peril.

"We want our young master, you canting old thief," was the reply; "and if
we have him not instantly, the topmost stone of your house shall lie as
low as the foundation."

"We shall try that presently," said Bridgenorth; "for if there is another
blow struck against the walls of my peaceful house, I will fire my
carabine among you, and your blood be upon your own head. I have a score
of friends, well armed with musket and pistol, to defend my house; and we
have both the means and heart, with Heaven's assistance, to repay any
violence you can offer."

"Master Bridgenorth," replied Lance, who, though no soldier, was sportsman
enough to comprehend the advantage which those under cover, and using
firearms, must necessarily have over his party, exposed to their aim, in a
great measure, and without means of answering their fire,—"Master
Bridgenorth, let us crave parley with you, and fair conditions. We desire
to do you no evil, but will have back our young master; it is enough that
you have got our old one and his lady. It is foul chasing to kill hart,
hind, and fawn; and we will give you some light on the subject in an
instant."

This speech was followed by a great crash amongst the lower windows of the
house, according to a new species of attack which had been suggested by
some of the assailants.

"I would take the honest fellow's word, and let young Peveril go," said
one of the garrison, who, carelessly yawning, approached on the inside of
the post at which Bridgenorth had stationed himself.

"Are you mad?" said Bridgenorth; "or do you think me poor enough in spirit
to give up the advantages I now possess over the family of Peveril, for
the awe of a parcel of boors, whom the first discharge will scatter like
chaff before the whirlwind?"

"Nay," answered the speaker, who was the same individual that had struck
Julian by his resemblance to the man who called himself Ganlesse, "I love
a dire revenge, but we shall buy it somewhat too dear if these rascals set
the house on fire, as they are like to do, while you are parleying from
the window. They have thrown torches or firebrands into the hall; and it
is all our friends can do to keep the flame from catching the wainscoting,
which is old and dry."

"Now, may Heaven judge thee for thy lightness of spirit," answered
Bridgenorth; "one would think mischief was so properly thy element, that
to thee it was indifferent whether friend or foe was the sufferer."

So saying, he ran hastily downstairs towards the hall, into which, through
broken casements, and betwixt the iron bars, which prevented human
entrance, the assailants had thrust lighted straw, sufficient to excite
much smoke and some fire, and to throw the defenders of the house into
great confusion; insomuch, that of several shots fired hastily from the
windows, little or no damage followed to the besiegers, who, getting warm
on the onset, answered the hostile charges with loud shouts of "Peveril
for ever!" and had already made a practicable breach through the
brick-wall of the tenement, through which Lance, Ditchley, and several of
the most adventurous among their followers, made their way into the hall.

The complete capture of the house remained, however, as far off as ever.
The defenders mixed with much coolness and skill that solemn and deep
spirit of enthusiasm which sets life at less than nothing, in comparison
to real or supposed duty. From the half-open doors which led into the
hall, they maintained a fire which began to grow fatal. One miner was shot
dead; three or four were wounded; and Lance scarce knew whether he should
draw his forces from the house, and leave it a prey to the flames, or,
making a desperate attack on the posts occupied by the defenders, try to
obtain unmolested possession of the place. At this moment, his course of
conduct was determined by an unexpected occurrence, of which it is
necessary to trace the cause.

Julian Peveril had been, like other inhabitants of Moultrassie Hall on
that momentous night, awakened by the report of the sentinel's musket,
followed by the shouts of his father's vassals and followers; of which he
collected enough to guess that Bridgenorth's house was attacked with a
view to his liberation. Very doubtful of the issue of such an attempt,
dizzy with the slumber from which he had been so suddenly awakened, and
confounded with the rapid succession of events to which he had been lately
a witness, he speedily put on a part of his clothes, and hastened to the
window of his apartment. From this he could see nothing to relieve his
anxiety, for it looked towards a quarter different from that on which the
attack was made. He attempted his door; it was locked on the outside; and
his perplexity and anxiety became extreme, when suddenly the lock was
turned, and in an underdress, hastily assumed in the moment of alarm, her
hair streaming on her shoulders, her eyes gleaming betwixt fear and
resolution, Alice Bridgenorth rushed into his apartment, and seized his
hand with the fervent exclamation, "Julian, save my father!"

The light which she bore in her hand served to show those features which
could rarely have been viewed by any one without emotion, but which bore
an expression irresistible to a lover.

"Alice," he said, "what means this? What is the danger? Where is your
father?"

"Do not stay to question," she answered; "but if you would save him,
follow me!"

At the same time she led the way, with great speed, half-way down the
turret stair case which led to his room, thence turning through a side
door, along a long gallery, to a larger and wider stair, at the bottom of
which stood her father, surrounded by four or five of his friends, scarce
discernible through the smoke of the fire which began to take hold in the
hall, as well as that which arose from the repeated discharge of their own
firearms.

Julian saw there was not a moment to be lost, if he meant to be a
successful mediator. He rushed through Bridgenorth's party ere they were
aware of his approach, and throwing himself amongst the assailants who
occupied the hall in considerable numbers, he assured them of his personal
safety, and conjured them to depart.

"Not without a few more slices at the Rump, master," answered Lance. "I am
principally glad to see you safe and well; but here is Joe Rimegap shot as
dead as a buck in season, and more of us are hurt; and we'll have revenge,
and roast the Puritans like apples for lambswool!"

"Then you shall roast me along with them," said Julian; "for I vow to God,
I will not leave the hall, being bound by parole of honour to abide with
Major Bridgenorth till lawfully dismissed."

"Now out on you, an you were ten times a Peveril!" said Ditchley; "to give
so many honest fellows loss and labour on your behalf, and to show them no
kinder countenance.—I say, beat up the fire, and burn all together!"

"Nay, nay; but peace, my masters, and hearken to reason," said Julian; "we
are all here in evil condition, and you will only make it worse by
contention. Do you help to put out this same fire, which will else cost us
all dear. Keep yourselves under arms. Let Master Bridgenorth and me settle
some grounds of accommodation, and I trust all will be favourably made up
on both sides; and if not, you shall have my consent and countenance to
fight it out; and come on it what will, I will never forget this night's
good service."

He then drew Ditchley and Lance Outram aside, while the rest stood
suspended at his appearance and words, and expressing the utmost thanks
and gratitude for what they had already done, urged them, as the greatest
favour which they could do towards him and his father's house, to permit
him to negotiate the terms of his emancipation from thraldom; at the same
time forcing on Ditchley five or six gold pieces, that the brave lads of
Bonadventure might drink his health; whilst to Lance he expressed the
warmest sense of his active kindness, but protested he could only consider
it as good service to his house, if he was allowed to manage the matter
after his own fashion.

"Why," answered Lance, "I am well out on it, Master Julian; for it is
matter beyond my mastery. All that I stand to is, that I will see you safe
out of this same Moultrassie Hall; for our old Naunt Ellesmere will else
give me but cold comfort when I come home. Truth is, I began unwillingly;
but when I saw the poor fellow Joe shot beside me, why, I thought we
should have some amends. But I put it all in your Honour's hands."

During this colloquy both parties had been amicably employed in
extinguishing the fire, which might otherwise have been fatal to all. It
required a general effort to get it under; and both parties agreed on the
necessary labour, with as much unanimity, as if the water they brought in
leathern buckets from the well to throw upon the fire, had some effect in
slaking their mutual hostility.

CHAPTER XXVI

Necessity—thou best of peacemakers,
As well as surest prompter of invention—
Help us to composition!
—ANONYMOUS.

While the fire continued, the two parties laboured in active union, like
the jarring factions of the Jews during the siege of Jerusalem, when
compelled to unite in resisting an assault of the besiegers. But when the
last bucket of water had hissed on the few embers that continued to
glimmer—when the sense of mutual hostility, hitherto suspended by a
feeling of common danger, was in its turn rekindled—the parties,
mingled as they had hitherto been in one common exertion, drew off from
each other, and began to arrange themselves at opposite sides of the hall,
and handle their weapons, as if for a renewal of the fight.

Bridgenorth interrupted any farther progress of this menaced hostility.
"Julian Peveril," he said, "thou art free to walk thine own path, since
thou wilt not walk with me that road which is more safe, as well as more
honourable. But if you do by my counsel, you will get soon beyond the
British seas."

"Ralph Bridgenorth," said one of his friends, "this is but evil and feeble
conduct on thine own part. Wilt thou withhold thy hand from the battle, to
defend, from these sons of Belial, the captive of thy bow and of thy
spear? Surely we are enow to deal with them in the security of the old
serpent, until we essay whether the Lord will not give us victory
therein."

A hum of stern assent followed; and had not Ganlesse now interfered, the
combat would probably have been renewed. He took the advocate for war
apart into one of the window recesses, and apparently satisfied his
objections; for as he returned to his companions, he said to them, "Our
friend hath so well argued this matter, that, verily, since he is of the
same mind with the worthy Major Bridgenorth, I think the youth may be set
at liberty."

As no farther objection was offered, it only remained with Julian to thank
and reward those who had been active in his assistance. Having first
obtained from Bridgenorth a promise of indemnity to them for the riot they
had committed, a few kind words conveyed his sense of their services; and
some broad pieces, thrust into the hand of Lance Outram, furnished the
means for affording them a holiday. They would have remained to protect
him, but, fearful of farther disorder, and relying entirely on the good
faith of Major Bridgenorth, he dismissed them all except Lance, whom he
detained to attend upon him for a few minutes, till he should depart from
Moultrassie. But ere leaving the Hall, he could not repress his desire to
speak with Bridgenorth in secret; and advancing towards him, he expressed
such a desire.

Tacitly granting what was asked of him, Bridgenorth led the way to a small
summer saloon adjoining to the Hall, where, with his usual gravity and
indifference of manner, he seemed to await in silence what Peveril had to
communicate.

Julian found it difficult, where so little opening was afforded him, to
find a tone in which to open the subjects he had at heart, that should be
at once dignified and conciliating. "Major Bridgenorth," he said at
length, "you have been a son, and an affectionate one—You may
conceive my present anxiety—My father!—What has been designed
for him?"

"What the law will," answered Bridgenorth. "Had he walked by the counsels
which I procured to be given to him, he might have dwelt safely in the
house of his ancestors. His fate is now beyond my control—far beyond
yours. It must be with him as his country decide."

"And my mother?" said Peveril.

"Will consult, as she has ever done, her own duty; and create her own
happiness by doing so," replied Bridgenorth. "Believe, my designs towards
your family are better than they may seem through the mist which adversity
has spread around your house. I may triumph as a man; but as a man I must
also remember, in my hour, that mine enemies have had theirs.—Have
you aught else to say?" he added, after a momentary pause. "You have
rejected once, yea, and again, the hand I stretched out to you. Methinks
little more remains between us."

These words, which seemed to cut short farther discussion, were calmly
spoken; so that though they appeared to discourage farther question, they
could not interrupt that which still trembled on Julian's tongue. He made
a step or two towards the door; then suddenly returned. "Your daughter?"
he said—"Major Bridgenorth—I should ask—I do ask
forgiveness for mentioning her name—but may I not inquire after her?—May
I not express my wishes for her future happiness?"

"Your interest in her is but too flattering," said Bridgenorth; "but you
have already chosen your part; and you must be, in future, strangers to
each other. I may have wished it otherwise, but the hour of grace is
passed, during which your compliance with my advice might—I will
speak it plainly—have led to your union. For her happiness—if
such a word belongs to mortal pilgrimage—I shall care for it
sufficiently. She leaves this place to-day, under the guardianship of a
sure friend."

"Not of——?" exclaimed Peveril, and stopped short; for he felt
he had no right to pronounce the name which came to his lips.

"Why do you pause?" said Bridgenorth; "a sudden thought is often a wise,
almost always an honest one. With whom did you suppose I meant to entrust
my child, that the idea called forth so anxious an expression?"

"Again I should ask your forgiveness," said Julian, "for meddling where I
have little right to interfere. But I saw a face here that is known to me—the
person calls himself Ganlesse—Is it with him that you mean to
entrust your daughter?"

"Even to the person who call himself Ganlesse," said Bridgenorth, without
expressing either anger or surprise.

"And do you know to whom you commit a charge so precious to all who know
her, and so dear to yourself?" said Julian.

"Do you know, who ask me the question?" answered Bridgenorth.

"I own I do not," answered Julian; "but I have seen him in a character so
different from that he now wears, that I feel it my duty to warn you, how
you entrust the charge of your child to one who can alternately play the
profligate or the hypocrite, as it suits his own interest or humour."

Bridgenorth smiled contemptuously. "I might be angry," he said, "with the
officious zeal which supposes that its green conceptions can instruct my
grey hairs; but, good Julian, I do but only ask from you the liberal
construction, that I, who have had much converse with mankind, know with
whom I trust what is dearest to me. He of whom thou speakest hath one
visage to his friends, though he may have others to the world, living
amongst those before whom honest features should be concealed under a
grotesque vizard; even as in the sinful sports of the day, called maskings
and mummeries, where the wise, if he show himself at all, must be
contented to play the apish and fantastic fool."

"I would only pray your wisdom to beware," said Julian, "of one, who, as
he has a vizard for others, may also have one which can disguise his real
features from you yourself."

"This is being over careful, young man," replied Bridgenorth, more shortly
than he had hitherto spoken; "if you would walk by my counsel, you will
attend to your own affairs, which, credit me, deserve all your care, and
leave others to the management of theirs."

This was too plain to be misunderstood; and Peveril was compelled to take
his leave of Bridgenorth, and of Moultrassie Hall, without farther parley
or explanation. The reader may imagine how oft he looked back, and tried
to guess, amongst the lights which continued to twinkle in various parts
of the building, which sparkle it was that gleamed from the bower of
Alice. When the road turned into another direction, he sunk into deep
reverie, from which he was at length roused by the voice of Lance, who
demanded where he intended to quarter for the night. He was unprepared to
answer the question, but the honest keeper himself prompted a solution of
the problem, by requesting that he would occupy a spare bed in the Lodge;
to which Julian willingly agreed. The rest of the inhabitants had retired
to rest when they entered; but Dame Ellesmere, apprised by a messenger of
her nephew's hospitable intent, had everything in the best readiness she
could, for the son of her ancient patron. Peveril betook himself to rest;
and, notwithstanding so many subjects of anxiety, slept soundly till the
morning was far advanced.

His slumbers were first broken by Lance, who had been long up, and already
active in his service. He informed him, that his horse, arms, and small
cloak-bag had been sent from the Castle by one of Major Bridgenorth's
servants, who brought a letter, discharging from the Major's service the
unfortunate Deborah Debbitch, and prohibiting her return to the Hall. The
officer of the House of Commons, escorted by a strong guard, had left
Martindale Castle that morning early, travelling in Sir Geoffrey's
carriage—his lady being also permitted to attend on him. To this he
had to add, that the property at the Castle was taken possession of by
Master Win-the-fight, the attorney, from Chesterfield, with other officers
of law, in name of Major Bridgenorth, a large creditor of the unfortunate
knight.

Having told these Job's tidings, Lance paused; and, after a moment's
hesitation, declared he was resolved to quit the country, and go up to
London along with his young master. Julian argued the point with him; and
insisted he had better stay to take charge of his aunt, in case she should
be disturbed by these strangers. Lance replied, "She would have one with
her, who would protect her well enough; for there was wherewithal to buy
protection amongst them. But for himself, he was resolved to follow Master
Julian to the death."

Julian heartily thanked him for his love.

"Nay, it is not altogether out of love neither," said Lance, "though I am
as loving as another; but it is, as it were, partly out of fear, lest I be
called over the coals for last night's matter; for as for the miners, they
will never trouble them, as the creatures only act after their kind."

"I will write in your behalf to Major Bridgenorth, who is bound to afford
you protection, if you have such fear," said Julian.

"Nay, for that matter, it is not altogether fear, more than altogether
love," answered the enigmatical keeper, "although it hath a tasting of
both in it. And, to speak plain truth, thus it is—Dame Debbitch and
Naunt Ellesmere have resolved to set up their horses together, and have
made up all their quarrels. And of all ghosts in the world, the worst is,
when an old true-love comes back to haunt a poor fellow like me. Mistress
Deborah, though distressed enow for the loss of her place, has been
already speaking of a broken sixpence, or some such token, as if a man
could remember such things for so many years, even if she had not gone
over seas, like woodcock, in the meanwhile."

Julian could scarce forbear laughing. "I thought you too much of a man,
Lance, to fear a woman marrying you whether you would or no."

"It has been many an honest man's luck, for all that," said Lance; "and a
woman in the very house has so many deuced opportunities. And then there
would be two upon one; for Naunt, though high enough when any of your
folks are concerned, hath some look to the main chance; and it seems
Mistress Deb is as rich as a Jew."

"And you, Lance," said Julian, "have no mind to marry for cake and
pudding."

"No, truly, master," answered Lance, "unless I knew of what dough they
were baked. How the devil do I know how the jade came by so much? And then
if she speaks of tokens and love-passages, let her be the same tight lass
I broke the sixpence with, and I will be the same true lad to her. But I
never heard of true love lasting ten years; and hers, if it lives at all,
must be nearer twenty."

"Well, then, Lance," said Julian, "since you are resolved on the thing, we
will go to London together; where, if I cannot retain you in my service,
and if my father recovers not these misfortunes, I will endeavour to
promote you elsewhere."

"Nay, nay," said Lance, "I trust to be back to bonny Martindale before it
is long, and to keep the greenwood, as I have been wont to do; for, as to
Dame Debbitch, when they have not me for their common butt, Naunt and she
will soon bend bows on each other. So here comes old Dame Ellesmere with
your breakfast. I will but give some directions about the deer to Rough
Ralph, my helper, and saddle my forest pony, and your honour's horse,
which is no prime one, and we will be ready to trot."

Julian was not sorry for this addition to his establishment; for Lance had
shown himself, on the preceding evening, a shrewd and bold fellow, and
attached to his master. He therefore set himself to reconcile his aunt to
parting with her nephew for some time. Her unlimited devotion for "the
family," readily induced the old lady to acquiesce in his proposal, though
not without a gentle sigh over the ruins of a castle in the air, which was
founded on the well-saved purse of Mistress Deborah Debbitch. "At any
rate," she thought, "it was as well that Lance should be out of the way of
that bold, long-legged, beggarly trollop, Cis Sellok." But to poor Deb
herself, the expatriation of Lance, whom she had looked to as a sailor to
a port under his lee, for which he can run, if weather becomes foul, was a
second severe blow, following close on her dismissal from the profitable
service of Major Bridgenorth.

Julian visited the disconsolate damsel, in hopes of gaining some light
upon Bridgenorth's projects regarding his daughter—the character of
this Ganlesse—and other matters, with which her residence in the
family might have made her acquainted; but he found her by far too much
troubled in mind to afford him the least information. The name of Ganlesse
she did not seem to recollect—that of Alice rendered her hysterical—that
of Bridgenorth, furious. She numbered up the various services she had
rendered in the family—and denounced the plague of swartness to the
linen—of leanness to the poultry—of dearth and dishonour to
the housekeeping—and of lingering sickness and early death to Alice;—all
which evils, she averred, had only been kept off by her continued,
watchful, and incessant cares.—Then again turning to the subject of
the fugitive Lance, she expressed such a total contempt of that
mean-spirited fellow, in a tone between laughing and crying, as satisfied
Julian it was not a topic likely to act as a sedative; and that,
therefore, unless he made a longer stay than the urgent state of his
affairs permitted, he was not likely to find Mistress Deborah in such a
state of composure as might enable him to obtain from her any rational or
useful information.

Lance, who good-naturedly took upon himself the whole burden of Dame
Debbitch's mental alienation, or "taking on," as such fits of passio
hysterica are usually termed in the country, had too much feeling to
present himself before the victim of her own sensibility, and of his
obduracy. He therefore intimated to Julian, by his assistant Ralph, that
the horses stood saddled behind the Lodge, and that all was ready for
their departure.

Julian took the hint, and they were soon mounted, and clearing the road,
at a rapid trot, in the direction of London; but not by the most usual
route. Julian calculated that the carriage in which his father was
transported would travel slowly; and it was his purpose, if possible, to
get to London before it should arrive there, in order to have time to
consult, with the friends of his family, what measures should be taken in
his father's behalf.

In this manner they advanced a day's journey towards London; at the
conclusion of which, Julian found his resting-place in a small inn upon
the road. No one came, at the first call, to attend upon the guests and
their horses, although the house was well lighted up; and there was a
prodigious chattering in the kitchen, such as can only be produced by a
French cook when his mystery is in the very moment of projection. It
instantly occurred to Julian—so rare was the ministry of these
Gallic artists at that time—that the clamour he heard must
necessarily be produced by the Sieur Chaubert, on whose plats he
had lately feasted, along with Smith and Ganlesse.

One, or both of these, were therefore probably in the little inn; and if
so, he might have some opportunity to discover their real purpose and
character. How to avail himself of such a meeting he knew not; but chance
favoured him more than he could have expected.

"I can scarce receive you, gentlefolks," said the landlord, who at length
appeared at the door; "here be a sort of quality in my house to-night,
whom less than all will not satisfy; nor all neither, for that matter."

"We are but plain fellows, landlord," said Julian; "we are bound for
Moseley-market, and can get no farther to-night. Any hole will serve us,
no matter what."

"Why," said the honest host, "if that be the case, I must e'en put one of
you behind the bar, though the gentlemen have desired to be private; the
other must take heart of grace and help me at the tap."

"The tap for me," said Lance, without waiting his master's decision. "It
is an element which I could live and die in."

"The bar, then, for me," said Peveril; and stepping back, whispered to
Lance to exchange cloaks with him, desirous, if possible, to avoid being
recognised.

The exchange was made in an instant; and presently afterwards the landlord
brought a light; and as he guided Julian into his hostelry, cautioned him
to sit quiet in the place where he should stow him; and if he was
discovered, to say that he was one of the house, and leave him to make it
good. "You will hear what the gallants say," he added; "but I think thou
wilt carry away but little on it; for when it is not French, it is Court
gibberish; and that is as hard to construe."

The bar, into which our hero was inducted on these conditions, seemed
formed, with respect to the public room, upon the principle of a citadel,
intended to observe and bridle a rebellious capital. Here sat the host on
the Saturday evenings, screened from the observation of his guests, yet
with the power of observing both their wants and their behaviour, and also
that of overhearing their conversation—a practice which he was much
addicted to, being one of that numerous class of philanthropists, to whom
their neighbours' business is of as much consequence, or rather more, than
their own.

Here he planted his new guest, with a repeated caution not to disturb the
gentlemen by speech or motion; and a promise that he should be speedily
accommodated with a cold buttock of beef, and a tankard of home-brewed.
And here he left him with no other light than that which glimmered from
the well-illuminated apartment within, through a sort of shuttle which
accommodated the landlord with a view into it.

This situation, inconvenient enough in itself, was, on the present
occasion, precisely what Julian would have selected. He wrapped himself in
the weather-beaten cloak of Lance Outram, which had been stained, by age
and weather, into a thousand variations from its original Lincoln green;
and with as little noise as he could, set himself to observe the two
inmates, who had engrossed to themselves the whole of the apartment, which
was usually open to the public. They sat by a table well covered with such
costly rarities, as could only have been procured by much forecast, and
prepared by the exquisite Mons. Chaubert; to which both seemed to do much
justice.

Julian had little difficulty in ascertaining, that one of the travellers
was, as he had anticipated, the master of the said Chaubert, or, as he was
called by Ganlesse, Smith; the other, who faced him, he had never seen
before. This last was dressed like a gallant of the first order. His
periwig, indeed, as he travelled on horseback, did not much exceed in size
the bar-wig of a modern lawyer; but then the essence which he shook from
it with every motion, impregnated a whole apartment, which was usually
only perfumed by that vulgar herb, tobacco. His riding-coat was laced in
the newest and most courtly style; and Grammont himself might have envied
the embroidery of his waistcoat, and the peculiar cut of his breeches,
which buttoned above the knee, permitting the shape of a very handsome leg
to be completely seen. This, by the proprietor thereof, had been stretched
out upon a stool, and he contemplated its proportions, from time to time,
with infinite satisfaction.

The conversation between these worthies was so interesting, that we
propose to assign to it another chapter.

CHAPTER XXVII

——This is some creature of the elements,
Most like your sea-gull. He can wheel and whistle
His screaming song, e'en when the storm is loudest—
Take for his sheeted couch the restless foam
Of the wild wave-crest—slumber in the calm,
And daily with the storm. Yet 'tis a gull,
An arrant gull, with all this.
—THE CHAMPION.

"And here is to thee," said the fashionable gallant whom we have
described, "honest Tom; and a cup of welcome to thee out of Looby-land.
Why, thou hast been so long in the country, that thou hast got a bumpkinly
clod-compelling sort of look thyself. That greasy doublet fits thee as if
it were thy reserved Sunday's apparel; and the points seem as if they were
stay-laces bought for thy true-love Marjory. I marvel thou canst still
relish a ragout. Methinks now, to a stomach bound in such a jacket, eggs
and bacon were a diet more conforming."

"Rally away, my good lord, while wit lasts," answered his companion;
"yours is not the sort of ammunition which will bear much expenditure. Or
rather, tell me news from Court, since we have met so opportunely."

"You would have asked me these an hour ago," said the lord, "had not your
very soul been under Chaubert's covered dishes. You remembered King's
affairs will keep cool, and entre-mets must be eaten hot."

"Not so, my lord; I only kept common talk whilst that eavesdropping rascal
of a landlord was in the room; so that, now the coast is clear once more,
I pray you for news from Court."

"The Plot is nonsuited," answered the courtier—"Sir George Wakeman
acquitted—the witnesses discredited by the jury—Scroggs, who
ranted on one side, is now ranting on t'other."

"Rat the Plot, Wakeman, witnesses, Papists, and Protestants, all together!
Do you think I care for such trash as that?—Till the Plot comes up
the Palace backstair, and gets possession of old Rowley's own imagination,
I care not a farthing who believes or disbelieves. I hang by him will bear
me out."

"Well, then," said the lord, "the next news is Rochester's disgrace."

"Disgraced!—How, and for what? The morning I came off he stood as
fair as any one."

"That's over—the epitaph[*] has broken his neck—and now he may
write one for his own Court favour, for it is dead and buried."

[*] The epitaph alluded to is the celebrated epigram made by Rochester
on Charles II. It was composed at the King's request, who
nevertheless resented its poignancy.
The lines are well known:—
"Here lies our sovereign lord the King,
Whose word no man relies on,
Who never said a foolish thing,
And never did a wise one."

"The epitaph!" exclaimed Tom; "why, I was by when it was made; and it
passed for an excellent good jest with him whom it was made upon."

"Ay, so it did amongst ourselves," answered his companion; "but it got
abroad, and had a run like a mill-race. It was in every coffee-house, and
in half the diurnals. Grammont translated it into French too; and there is
no laughing at so sharp a jest, when it is dinned into your ears on all
sides. So disgraced is the author; and but for his Grace of Buckingham,
the Court would be as dull as my Lord Chancellor's wig."

"Or as the head it covers.—Well, my lord, the fewer at Court, there
is the more room for those that can bustle there. But there are two
mainstrings of Shaftesbury's fiddle broken—the Popish Plot fallen
into discredit—and Rochester disgraced. Changeful times—but
here is to the little man who shall mend them."

"I apprehend you," replied his lordship; "and meet your health with my
love. Trust me, my lord loves you, and longs for you.—Nay, I have
done you reason.—By your leave, the cup is with me. Here is to his
buxom Grace of Bucks."

"As blithe a peer," said Smith, "as ever turned night to day. Nay, it
shall be an overflowing bumper, an you will; and I will drink it super
naculum.—And how stands the great Madam?"[*]

[*] The Duchess of Portsmouth, Charles II.'s favourite mistress; very
unpopular at the time of the Popish Plot, as well from her
religion as her country, being a Frenchwoman and a Catholic.

"Stoutly against all change," answered the lord—"Little Anthony[*]
can make nought of her."

[*] Anthony Ashley Cooper, Earl of Shaftesbury, the politician and
intriguer of the period.

"Then he shall bring her influence to nought. Hark in thine ear. Thou
knowest——" (Here he whispered so low that Julian could not
catch the sound.)

"Know him?" answered the other—"Know Ned of the Island?—To be
sure I do."

"He is the man that shall knot the great fiddle-strings that have snapped.
Say I told you so; and thereupon I give thee his health."

"And thereupon I pledge thee," said the young nobleman, "which on any
other argument I were loath to do—thinking of Ned as somewhat the
cut of a villain."

"Granted, man—granted," said the other,—"a very thorough-paced
rascal; but able, my lord, able and necessary; and, in this plan,
indispensable.—Pshaw!—This champagne turns stronger as it gets
older, I think."

"Hark, mine honest fellow," said the courtier; "I would thou wouldst give
me some item of all this mystery. Thou hast it, I know; for whom do men
entrust but trusty Chiffinch?"

"It is your pleasure to say so, my lord," answered Smith (whom we shall
hereafter call by his real name of Chiffinch) with such drunken gravity,
for his speech had become a little altered by his copious libations in the
course of the evening,—"few men know more, or say less, than I do;
and it well becomes my station. Conticuere omnes, as the grammar
hath it—all men should learn to hold their tongue."

"Except with a friend, Tom—except with a friend. Thou wilt never be
such a dogbolt as to refuse a hint to a friend? Come, you get too wise and
statesman-like for your office.—The ligatures of thy most peasantly
jacket there are like to burst with thy secret. Come, undo a button, man;
it is for the health of thy constitution—Let out a reef; and let thy
chosen friend know what is meditating. Thou knowest I am as true as
thyself to little Anthony, if he can but get uppermost."

"If, thou lordly infidel!" said Chiffinch—"talk'st thou to me
of ifs?—There is neither if nor and in the
matter. The great Madam shall be pulled a peg down—the great Plot
screwed a peg or two up. Thou knowest Ned?—Honest Ned had a
brother's death to revenge."

"I have heard so," said the nobleman; "and that his persevering resentment
of that injury was one of the few points which seemed to be a sort of
heathenish virtue in him."

"Well," continued Chiffinch, "in manoeuvring to bring about this revenge,
which he hath laboured at many a day, he hath discovered a treasure."

"What!—In the Isle of Man?" said his companion.

"Assure yourself of it.—She is a creature so lovely, that she needs
but be seen to put down every one of the favourites, from Portsmouth and
Cleveland down to that threepenny baggage, Mistress Nelly."

"By my word, Chiffinch," said my lord, "that is a reinforcement after the
fashion of thine own best tactics. But bethink thee, man! To make such a
conquest, there wants more than a cherry-cheek and a bright eye—there
must be wit—wit, man, and manners, and a little sense besides, to
keep influence when it is gotten."

"Pshaw! will you tell me what goes to this vocation?" said Chiffinch.
"Here, pledge me her health in a brimmer.—Nay, you shall do it on
knees, too.—Never such a triumphant beauty was seen—I went to
church on purpose, for the first time these ten years—Yet I lie, it
was not to church neither—it was to chapel."

"To chapel!—What the devil, is she a Puritan?" exclaimed the other
courtier.

"To be sure she is. Do you think I would be accessory to bringing a Papist
into favour in these times, when, as my good Lord said in the House, there
should not be a Popish manservant, nor a Popish maid-servant, not so much
as dog or cat, left to bark or mew about the King!"[*]

[*] Such was the extravagance of Shaftesbury's eloquence.

"But consider, Chiffie, the dislikelihood of her pleasing," said the noble
courtier.—"What! old Rowley, with his wit, and love of wit—his
wildness, and love of wildness—he form a league with a silly,
scrupulous, unidea'd Puritan!—Not if she were Venus."

"Thou knowest nought of the matter," answered Chiffinch. "I tell thee, the
fine contrast between the seeming saint and falling sinner will give zest
to the old gentleman's inclination. If I do not know him, who does?—Her
health, my lord, on your bare knee, as you would live to be of the
bedchamber."

"I pledge you most devoutly," answered his friend. "But you have not told
me how the acquaintance is to be made; for you cannot, I think, carry her
to Whitehall."

"Aha, my dear lord, you would have the whole secret! but that I cannot
afford—I can spare a friend a peep at my ends, but no one must look
on the means by which they are achieved."—So saying, he shook his
drunken head most wisely.

The villainous design which this discourse implied, and which his heart
told him was designed against Alice Bridgenorth, stirred Julian so
extremely, that he involuntarily shifted his posture, and laid his hand on
his sword hilt.

Chiffinch heard a rustling, and broke off, exclaiming, "Hark!—Zounds,
something moved—I trust I have told the tale to no ears but thine."

"I will cut off any which have drunk in but a syllable of thy words," said
the nobleman; and raising a candle, he took a hasty survey of the
apartment. Seeing nothing that could incur his menaced resentment, he
replaced the light and continued:—"Well, suppose the Belle Louise de
Querouaille[*] shoots from her high station in the firmament, how will you
rear up the downfallen Plot again—for without that same Plot, think
of it as thou wilt, we have no change of hands—and matters remain as
they were, with a Protestant courtezan instead of a Papist—Little
Anthony can but little speed without that Plot of his—I believe, in
my conscience, he begot it himself."[+]

[*] Charles's principal mistress en titre. She was created Duchess
of Portsmouth.

[+] Shaftesbury himself is supposed to have said that he knew not who
was the inventor of the Plot, but that he himself had all the
advantage of the discovery.

"Whoever begot it," said Chiffinch, "he hath adopted it; and a thriving
babe it has been to him. Well, then, though it lies out of my way, I will
play Saint Peter again—up with t'other key, and unlock t'other
mystery."

"Now thou speakest like a good fellow; and I will, with my own hands,
unwire this fresh flask, to begin a brimmer to the success of thy
achievement."

"Well, then," continued the communicative Chiffinch, "thou knowest that
they have long had a nibbling at the old Countess of Derby.—So Ned
was sent down—he owes her an old accompt, thou knowest—with
private instructions to possess himself of the island, if he could, by
help of some of his old friends. He hath ever kept up spies upon her; and
happy man was he, to think his hour of vengeance was come so nigh. But he
missed his blow; and the old girl being placed on her guard, was soon in a
condition to make Ned smoke for it. Out of the island he came with little
advantage for having entered it; when, by some means—for the devil,
I think, stands ever his friend—he obtained information concerning a
messenger, whom her old Majesty of Man had sent to London to make party in
her behalf. Ned stuck himself to this fellow—a raw, half-bred lad,
son of an old blundering Cavalier of the old stamp, down in Derbyshire—and
so managed the swain, that he brought him to the place where I was
waiting, in anxious expectation of the pretty one I told you of. By Saint
Anthony, for I will swear by no meaner oath, I stared when I saw this
great lout—not that the fellow is so ill-looked neither—I
stared like—like—good now, help me to a simile."

"Like Saint Anthony's pig, an it were sleek," said the young lord; "your
eyes, Chiffie, have the very blink of one. But what hath all this to do
with the Plot? Hold, I have had wine enough."

"You shall not balk me," said Chiffinch; and a jingling was heard, as if
he were filling his comrade's glass with a very unsteady hand. "Hey—What
the devil is the matter?—I used to carry my glass steady—very
steady."

"Well, but this stranger?"

"Why, he swept at game and ragout as he would at spring beef or summer
mutton. Never saw so unnurtured a cub—Knew no more what he ate than
an infidel—I cursed him by my gods when I saw Chaubert's chef-d'
oeuvres glutted down so indifferent a throat. We took the freedom to
spice his goblet a little, and ease him of his packet of letters; and the
fool went on his way the next morning with a budget artificially filled
with grey paper. Ned would have kept him, in hopes to have made a witness
of him, but the boy was not of that mettle."

"How will you prove your letters?" said the courtier.

"La you there, my lord," said Chiffinch; "one may see with half an eye,
for all your laced doublet, that you have been of the family of
Furnival's, before your brother's death sent you to Court. How prove the
letters?—Why, we have but let the sparrow fly with a string round
his foot.—We have him again so soon as we list."

"Why, thou art turned a very Machiavel, Chiffinch," said his friend. "But
how if the youth proved restive?—I have heard these Peak men have
hot heads and hard hands."

"Trouble not yourself—that was cared for, my lord," said Chiffinch—"his
pistols might bark, but they could not bite."

"Most exquisite Chiffinch, thou art turned micher as well as padder—Canst
both rob a man and kidnap him!"

"Micher and padder—what terms be these?" said Chiffinch. "Methinks
these are sounds to lug out upon. You will have me angry to the degree of
falling foul—robber and kidnapper!"

"You mistake verb for noun-substantive," replied his lordship; "I said rob
and kidnap—a man may do either once and away without being
professional."

"But not without spilling a little foolish noble blood, or some such
red-coloured gear," said Chiffinch, starting up.

"Oh yes," said his lordship; "all this may be without these dire
consequences, and as you will find to-morrow, when you return to England;
for at present you are in the land of Champagne, Chiffie; and that you may
continue so, I drink thee this parting cup to line thy nightcap."

"I do not refuse your pledge," said Chiffinch; "but I drink to thee in
dudgeon and in hostility—It is cup of wrath, and a gage of battle.
To-morrow, by dawn, I will have thee at point of fox, wert thou the last
of the Savilles.—What the devil! think you I fear you because you
are a lord?"

So saying, he lifted a candle, and left the apartment. And Chiffinch, whom
the last draught had nearly overpowered, had just strength enough left to
do the same, muttering, as he staggered out, "Yes, he shall answer it.—Dawn
of day? D—n me—It is come already—Yonder's the dawn—No,
d—n me, 'tis the fire glancing on the cursed red lattice—It is
the smell of the brandy in this cursed room—It could not be the wine—Well,
old Rowley shall send me no more errands to the country again—Steady,
steady."

So saying, he reeled out of the apartment, leaving Peveril to think over
the extraordinary conversation he had just heard.

The name of Chiffinch, the well-known minister of Charles's pleasures, was
nearly allied to the part which he seemed about to play in the present
intrigue; but that Christian, whom he had always supposed a Puritan as
strict as his brother-in-law, Bridgenorth, should be associated with him
in a plot so infamous, seemed alike unnatural and monstrous. The near
relationship might blind Bridgenorth, and warrant him in confiding his
daughter to such a man's charge; but what a wretch he must be, that could
coolly meditate such an ignominious abuse of his trust! In doubt whether
he could credit for a moment the tale which Chiffinch had revealed, he
hastily examined his packet, and found that the sealskin case in which it
had been wrapt up, now only contained an equal quantity of waste paper. If
he had wanted farther confirmation, the failure of the shot which he fired
at Bridgenorth, and of which the wadding only struck him, showed that his
arms had been tampered with. He examined the pistol which still remained
charged, and found that the ball had been drawn. "May I perish," said he
to himself, "amid these villainous intrigues, but thou shalt be more
surely loaded, and to better purpose! The contents of these papers may
undo my benefactress—their having been found on me, may ruin my
father—that I have been the bearer of them, may cost, in these fiery
times, my own life—that I care least for—they form a branch of
the scheme laid against the honour and happiness of a creature so
innocent, that it is almost sin to think of her within the neighbourhood
of such infamous knaves. I will recover the letters at all risks—But
how?—that is to be thought on.—Lance is stout and trusty; and
when a bold deed is once resolved upon, there never yet lacked the means
of executing it."

His host now entered, with an apology for his long absence; and after
providing Peveril with some refreshments, invited him to accept, for his
night-quarters, the accommodation of a remote hayloft, which he was to
share with his comrade; professing, at the same time, he could hardly have
afforded them this courtesy, but out of deference to the exquisite talents
of Lance Outram, as assistant at the tap; where, indeed, it seems probable
that he, as well as the admiring landlord, did that evening contrive to
drink nearly as much liquor as they drew.

But Lance was a seasoned vessel, on whom liquor made no lasting
impression; so that when Peveril awaked that trusty follower at dawn, he
found him cool enough to comprehend and enter into the design which he
expressed, of recovering the letters which had been abstracted from his
person.

Having considered the whole matter with much attention, Lance shrugged,
grinned, and scratched his head; and at length manfully expressed his
resolution. "Well, my naunt speaks truth in her old saw——

And then again, my good dame was wont to say, that whenever Peveril was in
a broil, Outram was in a stew; so I will never bear a base mind, but even
hold a part with you as my fathers have done with yours, for four
generations, whatever more."

"Spoken like a most gallant Outram," said Julian; "and were we but rid of
that puppy lord and his retinue, we two could easily deal with the other
three."

"Two Londoners and a Frenchman?" said Lance,—"I would take them in
mine own hand. And as for my Lord Saville, as they call him, I heard word
last night that he and all his men of gilded gingerbread—that looked
at an honest fellow like me, as if they were the ore and I the dross—are
all to be off this morning to some races, or such-like junketings, about
Tutbury. It was that brought him down here, where he met this other
civet-cat by accident."

In truth, even as Lance spoke, a trampling was heard of horses in the
yard; and from the hatch of their hayloft they beheld Lord Saville's
attendants mustered, and ready to set out as soon as he could make his
appearance.

"So ho, Master Jeremy," said one of the fellows, to a sort of principal
attendant, who just came out of the house, "methinks the wine has proved a
sleeping cup to my lord this morning."

"No," answered Jeremy, "he hath been up before light writing letters for
London; and to punish thy irreverence, thou, Jonathan, shalt be the man to
ride back with them."

"And so to miss the race?" said Jonathan sulkily; "I thank you for this
good turn, good Master Jeremy; and hang me if I forget it."

Farther discussion was cut short by the appearance of the young nobleman,
who, as he came out of the inn, said to Jeremy, "These be the letters. Let
one of the knaves ride to London for life and death, and deliver them as
directed; and the rest of them get to horse and follow me."

Jeremy gave Jonathan the packet with a malicious smile; and the
disappointed groom turned his horse's head sullenly towards London, while
Lord Saville, and the rest of his retinue, rode briskly off in an opposite
direction, pursued by the benedictions of the host and his family, who
stood bowing and courtesying at the door, in gratitude, doubtless, for the
receipt of an unconscionable reckoning.

It was full three hours after their departure, that Chiffinch lounged into
the room in which they had supped, in a brocade nightgown, and green
velvet cap, turned up with the most costly Brussels lace. He seemed but
half awake; and it was with drowsy voice that he called for a cup of cold
small beer. His manner and appearance were those of a man who had wrestled
hard with Bacchus on the preceding evening, and had scarce recovered the
effects of his contest with the jolly god. Lance, instructed by his master
to watch the motions of the courtier, officiously attended with the
cooling beverage he called for, pleading, as an excuse to the landlord,
his wish to see a Londoner in his morning-gown and cap.

No sooner had Chiffinch taken his morning draught, than he inquired after
Lord Saville.

"His lordship was mounted and away by peep of dawn," was Lance's reply.

"What the devil!" exclaimed Chiffinch; "why, this is scarce civil.—What!
off for the races with his whole retinue?"

"All but one," replied Lance, "whom his lordship sent back to London with
letters."

"To London with letters!" said Chiffinch. "Why, I am for London, and could
have saved his express a labour.—But stop—hold—I begin
to recollect—d——n, can I have blabbed?—I have—I
have—I remember it all now—I have blabbed; and to the very
weasel of the Court, who sucks the yelk out of every man's secret. Furies
and fire—that my afternoons should ruin my mornings thus!—I
must turn boon companion and good fellow in my cups—and have my
confidences and my quarrels—my friends and my enemies, with a plague
to me, as if any one could do a man much good or harm but his own self.
His messenger must be stopped, though—I will put a spoke in his
wheel.—Hark ye, drawer-fellow—call my groom hither—call
Tom Beacon."

Lance obeyed; but failed not, when he had introduced the domestic, to
remain in the apartment, in order to hear what should pass betwixt him and
his master.

"Hark ye, Tom," said Chiffinch, "here are five pieces for you."

"What's to be done now, I trow?" said Tom, without even the ceremony of
returning thanks, which he was probably well aware would not be received
even in part payment of the debt he was incurring.

"Mount your fleet nag, Tom—ride like the devil—overtake the
groom whom Lord Saville despatched to London this morning—lame his
horse—break his bones—fill him as drunk as the Baltic sea; or
do whatever may best and most effectively stop his journey.—Why does
the lout stand there without answering me? Dost understand me?"

"Why, ay, Master Chiffinch," said Tom; "and so I am thinking doth this
honest man here, who need not have heard quite so much of your counsel, an
it had been your will."

"I am bewitched this morning," said Chiffinch to himself, "or else the
champagne runs in my head still. My brain has become the very lowlands of
Holland—a gill-cup would inundate it—Hark thee, fellow," he
added, addressing Lance, "keep my counsel—there is a wager betwixt
Lord Saville and me, which of us shall first have a letter in London. Here
is to drink my health, and bring luck on my side. Say nothing of it; but
help Tom to his nag.—Tom, ere thou startest come for thy credentials—I
will give thee a letter to the Duke of Bucks, that may be evidence thou
wert first in town."

Tom Beacon ducked and exited; and Lance, after having made some show of
helping him to horse, ran back to tell his master the joyful intelligence,
that a lucky accident had abated Chiffinch's party to their own number.

Peveril immediately ordered his horses to be got ready; and, so soon as
Tom Beacon was despatched towards London, on a rapid trot, had the
satisfaction to observe Chiffinch, with his favourite Chaubert, mount to
pursue the same journey, though at a more moderate rate. He permitted them
to attain such a distance, that they might be dogged without suspicion;
then paid his reckoning, mounted his horse, and followed, keeping his men
carefully in view, until he should come to a place proper for the
enterprise which he meditated.

It had been Peveril's intention, that when they came to some solitary part
of the road, they should gradually mend their pace, until they overtook
Chaubert—that Lance Outram should then drop behind, in order to
assail the man of spits and stoves, while he himself, spurring onwards,
should grapple with Chiffinch. But this scheme presupposed that the master
and servant should travel in the usual manner—the latter riding a
few yards behind the former. Whereas, such and so interesting were the
subjects of discussion betwixt Chiffinch and the French cook, that,
without heeding the rules of etiquette, they rode on together, amicably
abreast, carrying on a conversation on the mysteries of the table, which
the ancient Comus, or a modern gastronome, might have listened to with
pleasure. It was therefore necessary to venture on them both at once.

For this purpose, when they saw a long tract of road before them, unvaried
by the least appearance of man, beast, or human habitation, they began to
mend their pace, that they might come up to Chiffinch, without giving him
any alarm, by a sudden and suspicious increase of haste. In this manner
they lessened the distance which separated them till they were within
about twenty yards, when Peveril, afraid that Chiffinch might recognise
him at a nearer approach, and so trust to his horse's heels, made Lance
the signal to charge.

At the sudden increase of their speed, and the noise with which it was
necessarily attended, Chiffinch looked around, but had time to do no more,
for Lance, who had pricked his pony (which was much more speedy than
Julian's horse) into full gallop, pushed, without ceremony, betwixt the
courtier and his attendant; and ere Chaubert had time for more than one
exclamation, he upset both horse and Frenchman,—morbleu!
thrilling from his tongue as he rolled on the ground amongst the various
articles of his occupation, which, escaping from the budget in which he
bore them, lay tumbled upon the highway in strange disorder; while Lance,
springing from his palfrey, commanded his foeman to be still, under no
less a penalty than that of death, if he attempted to rise.

Before Chiffinch could avenge his trusty follower's downfall, his own
bridle was seized by Julian, who presented a pistol with the other hand,
and commanded him to stand or die.

Chiffinch, though effeminate, was no coward. He stood still as commanded,
and said, with firmness, "Rogue, you have taken me at surprise. If you are
highwaymen, there is my purse. Do us no bodily harm, and spare the budget
of spices and sauces."

"Look you, Master Chiffinch," said Peveril, "this is no time for dallying.
I am no highwayman, but a man of honour. Give me back that packet which
you stole from me the other night; or, by all that is good, I will send a
brace of balls through you, and search for it at leisure."

"What night?—What packet?" answered Chiffinch, confused; yet willing
to protract the time for the chance of assistance, or to put Peveril off
his guard. "I know nothing of what you mean. If you are a man of honour,
let me draw my sword, and I will do you right, as a gentleman should do to
another."

"Dishonourable rascal!" said Peveril, "you escape not in this manner. You
plundered me when you had me at odds; and I am not the fool to let my
advantage escape, now that my turn is come. Yield up the packet; and then,
if you will, I will fight you on equal terms. But first," he reiterated,
"yield up the packet, or I will instantly send you where the tenor of your
life will be hard to answer for."

The tone of Peveril's voice, the fierceness of his eye, and the manner in
which he held the loaded weapon, within a hand's-breadth of Chiffinch's
head, convinced the last there was neither room for compromise, nor time
for trifling. He thrust his hand into a side pocket of his cloak, and with
visible reluctance, produced those papers and despatches with which Julian
had been entrusted by the Countess of Derby.

"They are five in number," said Julian; "and you have given me only four.
Your life depends on full restitution."

"Base wretch!" said Peveril, withdrawing his pistol, yet keeping a
watchful eye on Chiffinch's motions, "thou art unworthy any honest man's
sword; and yet, if you dare draw your own, as you proposed but now, I am
willing to give you a chance upon fair equality of terms."

"Equality!" said Chiffinch sneeringly; "yes, a proper equality—sword
and pistol against single rapier, and two men upon one, for Chaubert is no
fighter. No sir; I shall seek amends upon some more fitting occasion, and
with more equal weapons."

"By backbiting, or by poison, base pander!" said Julian; "these are thy
means of vengeance. But mark me—I know your vile purpose respecting
a lady who is too worthy that her name should be uttered in such a
worthless ear. Thou hast done me one injury, and thou see'st I have repaid
it. But prosecute this farther villainy, and be assured I will put thee to
death like a foul reptile, whose very slaver is fatal to humanity. Rely
upon this, as if Machiavel had sworn it; for so surely as you keep your
purpose, so surely will I prosecute my revenge.—Follow me, Lance,
and leave him to think on what I have told him."

Lance had, after the first shock, sustained a very easy part in this
recontre; for all he had to do, was to point the butt of his whip, in the
manner of a gun, at the intimidated Frenchman, who, lying on his back, and
gazing at random on the skies, had as little the power or purpose of
resistance, as any pig which had ever come under his own slaughter-knife.

Summoned by his master from the easy duty of guarding such an unresisting
prisoner, Lance remounted his horse, and they both rode off, leaving their
discomfited antagonists to console themselves for their misadventure as
they best could. But consolation was hard to come by in the circumstances.
The French artist had to lament the dispersion of his spices, and the
destruction of his magazine of sauces—an enchanter despoiled of his
magic wand and talisman, could scarce have been in more desperate
extremity. Chiffinch had to mourn the downfall of his intrigue, and its
premature discovery. "To this fellow, at least," he thought, "I can have
bragged none—here my evil genius alone has betrayed me. With this
infernal discovery, which may cost me so dear on all hands, champagne had
nought to do. If there be a flask left unbroken, I will drink it after
dinner, and try if it may not even yet suggest some scheme of redemption
and of revenge."

With this manly resolution, he prosecuted his journey to London.

CHAPTER XXVIII

A man so various, that he seem'd to be
Not one, but all mankind's epitome;
Stiff in opinions—always in the wrong—
Was everything by starts, but nothing long;
Who, in the course of one revolving moon,
Was chemist, fiddler, statesman, and buffoon;
Then, all for women, painting, fiddling, drinking;
Besides a thousand freaks that died in thinking.
—DRYDEN.

We must now transport the reader to the magnificent hotel in ——Street,
inhabited at this time by the celebrated George Villiers, Duke of
Buckingham, whom Dryden has doomed to a painful immortality by the few
lines which we have prefixed to this chapter. Amid the gay and licentious
of the laughing Court of Charles, the Duke was the most licentious and
most gay; yet, while expending a princely fortune, a strong constitution,
and excellent talents, in pursuit of frivolous pleasures, he nevertheless
nourished deeper and more extensive designs; in which he only failed from
want of that fixed purpose and regulated perseverance essential to all
important enterprises, but particularly in politics.

It was long past noon; and the usual hour of the Duke's levee—if
anything could be termed usual where all was irregular—had been long
past. His hall was filled with lackeys and footmen, in the most splendid
liveries; the interior apartments, with the gentlemen and pages of his
household, arrayed as persons of the first quality, and, in that respect,
rather exceeding than falling short of the Duke in personal splendour. But
his antechamber, in particular, might be compared to a gathering of eagles
to the slaughter, were not the simile too dignified to express that vile
race, who, by a hundred devices all tending to one common end, live upon
the wants of needy greatness, or administer to the pleasures of
summer-teeming luxury, or stimulate the wild wishes of lavish and wasteful
extravagance, by devising new modes and fresh motives of profusion. There
stood the projector, with his mysterious brow, promising unbounded wealth
to whomsoever might choose to furnish the small preliminary sum necessary
to change egg-shells into the great arcanum. There was Captain
Seagull, undertaker for a foreign settlement, with the map under his arm
of Indian or American kingdoms, beautiful as the primitive Eden, waiting
the bold occupants, for whom a generous patron should equip two
brigantines and a fly-boat. Thither came, fast and frequent, the
gamesters, in their different forms and calling. This, light, young, gay
in appearance, the thoughtless youth of wit and pleasure—the pigeon
rather than the rook—but at heart the same sly, shrewd, cold-blooded
calculator, as yonder old hard-featured professor of the same science,
whose eyes are grown dim with watching of the dice at midnight; and whose
fingers are even now assisting his mental computation of chances and of
odds. The fine arts, too—I would it were otherwise—have their
professors amongst this sordid train. The poor poet, half ashamed, in
spite of habit, of the part which he is about to perform, and abashed by
consciousness at once of his base motive and his shabby black coat, lurks
in yonder corner for the favourable moment to offer his dedication. Much
better attired, the architect presents his splendid vision of front and
wings, and designs a palace, the expense of which may transfer his
employer to a jail. But uppermost of all, the favourite musician, or
singer, who waits on my lord to receive, in solid gold, the value of the
dulcet sounds which solaced the banquet of the preceding evening.

Such, and many such like, were the morning attendants of the Duke of
Buckingham—all genuine descendants of the daughter of the
horse-leech, whose cry is "Give, give."

But the levee of his Grace contained other and very different characters;
and was indeed as various as his own opinions and pursuits. Besides many
of the young nobility and wealthy gentry of England, who made his Grace
the glass at which they dressed themselves for the day, and who learned
from him how to travel, with the newest and best grace, the general Road
to Ruin; there were others of a graver character—discarded
statesmen, political spies, opposition orators, servile tools of
administration, men who met not elsewhere, but who regarded the Duke's
mansion as a sort of neutral ground; sure, that if he was not of their
opinion to-day, this very circumstance rendered it most likely he should
think with them to-morrow. The Puritans themselves did not shun
intercourse with a man whose talents must have rendered him formidable,
even if they had not been united with high rank and an immense fortune.
Several grave personages, with black suits, short cloaks, and band-strings
of a formal cut, were mingled, as we see their portraits in a gallery of
paintings, among the gallants who ruffled in silk and embroidery. It is
true, they escaped the scandal of being thought intimates of the Duke, by
their business being supposed to refer to money matters. Whether these
grave and professing citizens mixed politics with money lending, was not
known; but it had been long observed, that the Jews, who in general
confine themselves to the latter department, had become for some time
faithful attendants at the Duke's levee.

It was high-tide in the antechamber, and had been so for more than an
hour, ere the Duke's gentleman-in-ordinary ventured into his bedchamber,
carefully darkened, so as to make midnight at noonday, to know his Grace's
pleasure. His soft and serene whisper, in which he asked whether it were
his Grace's pleasure to rise, was briefly and sharply answered by the
counter questions, "Who waits?—What's o'clock?"

"It is Jerningham, your Grace," said the attendant. "It is one, afternoon;
and your Grace appointed some of the people without at eleven."

"Who are they?—What do they want?"

"A message from Whitehall, your Grace."

"Pshaw! it will keep cold. Those who make all others wait, will be the
better of waiting in their turn. Were I to be guilty of ill-breeding, it
should rather be to a king than a beggar."

"The gentlemen from the city."

"I am tired of them—tired of their all cant, and no religion—all
Protestantism, and no charity. Tell them to go to Shaftesbury—to
Aldersgate Street with them—that's the best market for their wares."

"Jockey, my lord, from Newmarket."

"Let him ride to the devil—he has horse of mine, and spurs of his
own. Any more?"

"The whole antechamber is full, my lord—knights and squires, doctors
and dicers."

"The dicers, with their doctors[*] in their pockets, I presume."

[*] Doctor, a cant name for false dice.

"Counts, captains, and clergymen."

"You are alliterative, Jerningham," said the Duke; "and that is a proof
you are poetical. Hand me my writing things."

Getting half out of bed—thrusting one arm into a brocade nightgown,
deeply furred with sables, and one foot into a velvet slipper, while the
other pressed in primitive nudity the rich carpet—his Grace, without
thinking farther on the assembly without, began to pen a few lines of a
satirical poem; then suddenly stopped—threw the pen into the chimney—exclaimed
that the humour was past—and asked his attendant if there were any
letters. Jerningham produced a huge packet.

"What the devil!" said his Grace, "do you think I will read all these? I
am like Clarence, who asked a cup of wine, and was soused into a butt of
sack. I mean, is there anything which presses?"

"Let the usurers foreclose, then—there is no difficulty in that; and
out of a hundred manors I shall scarce miss one," answered the Duke. "And
hark ye, bring me my chocolate."

"Nay, my lord, Gatheral does not say it is impossible—only
difficult."

"And what is the use of him, if he cannot make it easy? But you are all
born to make difficulties," replied the Duke.

"Nay, if your Grace approves the terms in this schedule, and pleases to
sign it, Gatheral will undertake for the matter," answered Jerningham.

"And could you not have said so at first, you blockhead?" said the Duke,
signing the paper without looking at the contents—"What other
letters? And remember, I must be plagued with no more business."

"Billets-doux, my lord—five or six of them. This left at the
porter's lodge by a vizard mask."

"Pshaw!" answered the Duke, tossing them over, while his attendant
assisted in dressing him—"an acquaintance of a quarter's standing."

"This given to one of the pages by my Lady ——'s
waiting-woman."

"Plague on it—a Jeremiade on the subject of perjury and treachery,
and not a single new line to the old tune," said the Duke, glancing over
the billet. "Here is the old cant—cruel man—broken vows—Heaven's
just revenge. Why, the woman is thinking of murder—not of love.
No one should pretend to write upon so threadbare a topic without having
at least some novelty of expression. The despairing Araminta—Lie
there, fair desperate. And this—how comes it?"

"Flung into the window of the hall, by a fellow who ran off at full
speed," answered Jerningham.

"This is a better text," said the Duke; "and yet it is an old one too—three
weeks old at least—The little Countess with the jealous lord—I
should not care a farthing for her, save for that same jealous lord—Plague
on't, and he's gone down to the country—this evening—in
silence and safety—written with a quill pulled from the wing of
Cupid—Your ladyship has left him pen-feathers enough to fly away
with—better clipped his wings when you had caught him, my lady—And
so confident of her Buckingham's faith,—I hate confidence in
a young person. She must be taught better—I will not go."

"You Grace will not be so cruel!" said Jerningham.

"Thou art a compassionate fellow, Jerningham; but conceit must be
punished."

"But if your lordship should resume your fancy for her?"

"Why, then, you must swear the billet-doux miscarried," answered the Duke.
"And stay, a thought strikes me—it shall miscarry in great style.
Hark ye—Is—what is the fellow's name—the poet—is
he yonder?"

"There are six gentlemen, sir, who, from the reams of paper in their
pocket, and the threadbare seams at their elbows, appear to wear the
livery of the Muses."

"Poetical once more, Jerningham. He, I mean, who wrote the last lampoon,"
said the Duke.

"To whom your Grace said you owed five pieces and a beating!" replied
Jerningham.

"The money for his satire, and the cudgel for his praise—Good—find
him—give him the five pieces, and thrust the Countess's billet-doux—Hold—take
Araminta's and the rest of them—thrust them all into his portfolio—All
will come out at the Wit's Coffee-house; and if the promulgator be not
cudgelled into all the colours of the rainbow, there is no spite in woman,
no faith in crabtree, or pith in heart of oak—Araminta's wrath alone
would overburden one pair of mortal shoulders."

"But, my Lord Duke," said his attendant, "this Settle[*] is so dull a
rascal, that nothing he can write will take."

[*] Elkana Settle, the unworthy scribbler whom the envy of Rochester
and others tried to raise to public estimation, as a rival to
Dryden; a circumstance which has been the means of elevating him
to a very painful species of immortality.

"Then as we have given him steel to head the arrow," said the Duke, "we
will give him wings to waft it with—wood, he has enough of his own
to make a shaft or bolt of. Hand me my own unfinished lampoon—give
it to him with the letters—let him make what he can of them all."

"My Lord Duke—I crave pardon—but your Grace's style will be
discovered; and though the ladies' names are not at the letters, yet they
will be traced."

"I would have it so, you blockhead. Have you lived with me so long, and
cannot discover that the éclat of an intrigue is, with me, worth all the
rest of it?"

"And beaten to sleep again," said Buckingham haughtily. "I have Black Will
and his cudgel for plebeian grumblers; and those of quality I can deal
with myself. I lack breathing and exercise of late."

"But yet your Grace——"

"Hold your peace, fool! I tell you that your poor dwarfish spirit cannot
measure the scope of mine. I tell thee I would have the course of my life
a torrent—I am weary of easy achievements, and wish for obstacles,
that I can sweep before my irresistible course."

Another gentleman now entered the apartment. "I humbly crave your Grace's
pardon," he said; "but Master Christian is so importunate for admission
instantly, that I am obliged to take your Grace's pleasure."

"Tell him to call three hours hence. Damn his politic pate, that would
make all men dance after his pipe!"

"I thank thee for the compliment, my Lord Duke," said Christian, entering
the apartment in somewhat a more courtly garb, but with the same
unpretending and undistinguished mien, and in the same placid and
indifferent manner with which he had accosted Julian Peveril upon
different occasions during his journey to London. "It is precisely my
present object to pipe to you; and you may dance to your own profit, if
you will."

"On my word, Master Christian," said the Duke haughtily, "the affair
should be weighty, that removes ceremony so entirely from betwixt us. If
it relates to the subject of our last conversation, I must request our
interview be postponed to some farther opportunity. I am engaged in an
affair of some weight." Then turning his back on Christian, he went on
with his conversation with Jerningham. "Find the person you wot of, and
give him the papers; and hark ye, give him this gold to pay for the shaft
of his arrow—the steel-head and peacock's wing we have already
provided."

"This is all well, my lord," said Christian calmly, and taking his seat at
the same time in an easy-chair at some distance; "but your Grace's levity
is no match for my equanimity. It is necessary I should speak with you;
and I will await your Grace's leisure in the apartment."

"Very well, sir," said the Duke peevishly; "if an evil is to be
undergone, the sooner it is over the better—I can take measures to
prevent its being renewed. So let me hear your errand without farther
delay."

"I will wait till your Grace's toilette is completed," said Christian,
with the indifferent tone which was natural to him. "What I have to say
must be between ourselves."

"Begone, Jerningham; and remain without till I call. Leave my doublet on
the couch.—How now, I have worn this cloth of silver a hundred
times."

"Only twice, if it please your Grace," replied Jerningham.

"As well twenty times—keep it for yourself, or give it to my valet,
if you are too proud of your gentility."

"Your Grace has made better men than me wear your cast clothes," said
Jerningham submissively.

"Thou art sharp, Jerningham," said the Duke—"in one sense I have,
and I may again. So now, that pearl-coloured will do with the ribbon and
George. Get away with thee.—And now that he is gone, Master
Christian, may I once more crave your pleasure?"

"My Lord Duke," said Christian, "you are a worshipper of difficulties in
state affairs, as in love matters."

"I trust you have been no eavesdropper, Master Christian," replied the
Duke; "it scarce argues the respect due to me, or to my roof."

"I know not what you mean, my lord," replied Christian.

"Nay, I care not if the whole world heard what I said but now to
Jerningham. But to the matter," replied the Duke of Buckingham.

"Your Grace is so much occupied with conquests over the fair and over the
witty, that you have perhaps forgotten what a stake you have in the little
Island of Man."

"Not a whit, Master Christian. I remember well enough that my roundheaded
father-in-law, Fairfax, had the island from the Long Parliament; and was
ass enough to quit hold of it at the Restoration, when, if he had closed
his clutches, and held fast, like a true bird of prey, as he should have
done, he might have kept it for him and his. It had been a rare thing to
have had a little kingdom—made laws of my own—had my
Chamberlain with his white staff—I would have taught Jerningham, in
half a day, to look as wise, walk as stiffly, and speak as silly, as Harry
Bennet."

"You might have done this, and more, if it had pleased your Grace."

"Ay, and if it had pleased my Grace, thou, Ned Christian, shouldst have
been the Jack Ketch of my dominions."

"I your Jack Ketch, my lord?" said Christian, more in a tone of
surprise than of displeasure.

"Why, ay; thou hast been perpetually intriguing against the life of yonder
poor old woman. It were a kingdom to thee to gratify thy spleen with thy
own hands."

"I only seek justice against the Countess," said Christian.

"And the end of justice is always a gibbet," said the Duke.

"Be it so," answered Christian. "Well, the Countess is in the Plot."

"The devil confound the Plot, as I believe he first invented it!" said the
Duke of Buckingham; "I have heard of nothing else for months. If one must
go to hell, I would it were by some new road, and in gentlemen's company.
I should not like to travel with Oates, Bedloe, and the rest of that
famous cloud of witnesses."

"Your Grace is then resolved to forego all the advantages which may arise?
If the House of Derby fall under forfeiture, the grant to Fairfax, now
worthily represented by your Duchess, revives, and you become the Lord and
Sovereign of Man."

"In right of a woman," said the Duke; "but, in troth, my godly dame owes
me some advantage for having lived the first year of our marriage with her
and old Black Tom, her grim, fighting, puritanic father. A man might as
well have married the Devil's daughter, and set up housekeeping with his
father-in-law."[*]

[*] Mary, daughter of Thomas, Lord Fairfax, was wedded to the Duke of
Buckingham, whose versatility made him capable of rendering
himself for a time as agreeable to his father-in-law, though a
rigid Presbyterian, as to the gay Charles II.

"I understand you are willing, then, to join your interest for a heave at
the House of Derby, my Lord Duke?"

"As they are unlawfully possessed of my wife's kingdom, they certainly can
expect no favour at my hand. But thou knowest there is an interest at
Whitehall predominant over mine."

"That is only by your Grace's sufferance," said Christian.

"No, no; I tell thee a hundred times, no," said the Duke, rousing himself
to anger at the recollection. "I tell thee that base courtezan, the
Duchess of Portsmouth, hath impudently set herself to thwart and
contradict me; and Charles has given me both cloudy looks and hard words
before the Court. I would he could but guess what is the offence between
her and me! I would he knew but that! But I will have her plumes picked,
or my name is not Villiers. A worthless French fille-de-joie to brave me
thus!—Christian, thou art right; there is no passion so
spirit-stirring as revenge. I will patronise the Plot, if it be but to
spite her, and make it impossible for the King to uphold her."

As the Duke spoke, he gradually wrought himself into a passion, and
traversed the apartment with as much vehemence as if the only object he
had on earth was to deprive the Duchess of her power and favour with the
King. Christian smiled internally to see him approach the state of mind in
which he was most easily worked upon, and judiciously kept silence, until
the Duke called out to him, in a pet, "Well, Sir Oracle, you that have
laid so many schemes to supplant this she-wolf of Gaul, where are all your
contrivances now?—Where is the exquisite beauty who was to catch the
Sovereign's eye at the first glance?—Chiffinch, hath he seen her?—and
what does he say, that exquisite critic in beauty and blank-mange, women
and wine?"

"He has seen and approves, but has not yet heard her; and her
speech answers to all the rest. We came here yesterday; and to-day I
intend to introduce Chiffinch to her, the instant he arrives from the
country; and I expect him every hour. I am but afraid of the damsel's
peevish virtue, for she hath been brought up after the fashion of our
grandmothers—our mothers had better sense."

"What! so fair, so young, so quick-witted, and so difficult?" said the
Duke. "By your leave, you shall introduce me as well as Chiffinch."

"That your Grace may cure her of her intractable modesty?" said Christian.

"Why," replied the Duke, "it will but teach her to stand in her own light.
Kings do not love to court and sue; they should have their game run down
for them."

"Under your Grace's favour," said Christian, "this cannot be—Non
omnibus dormio—Your Grace knows the classic allusion. If this
maiden become a Prince's favourite, rank gilds the shame and the sin. But
to any under Majesty, she must not vail topsail."

"Why, thou suspicious fool, I was but in jest," said the Duke. "Do you
think I would interfere to spoil a plan so much to my own advantage as
that which you have laid before me?"

Christian smiled and shook his head. "My lord," he said, "I know your
Grace as well, or better, perhaps, than you know yourself. To spoil a
well-concerted intrigue by some cross stroke of your own, would give you
more pleasure, than to bring it to a successful termination according to
the plans of others. But Shaftesbury, and all concerned, have determined
that our scheme shall at least have fair play. We reckon, therefore, on
your help; and—forgive me when I say so—we will not permit
ourselves to be impeded by your levity and fickleness of purpose."

"Who?—I light and fickle of purpose?" said the Duke. "You see me
here as resolved as any of you, to dispossess the mistress, and to carry
on the plot; these are the only two things I live for in this world. No
one can play the man of business like me, when I please, to the very
filing and labelling of my letters. I am regular as a scrivener."

"You have Chiffinch's letter from the country; he told me he had written
to you about some passages betwixt him and the young Lord Saville."

"He did so—he did so," said the Duke, looking among his letters;
"but I see not his letter just now—I scarcely noted the contents—I
was busy when it came—but I have it safely."

"You should have acted on it," answered Christian. "The fool suffered
himself to be choused out of his secret, and prayed you to see that my
lord's messenger got not to the Duchess with some despatches which he sent
up from Derbyshire, betraying our mystery."

The Duke was now alarmed, and rang the bell hastily. Jerningham appeared.
"Where is the letter I had from Master Chiffinch some hours since?"

"If it be not amongst those your Grace has before you, I know nothing of
it," said Jerningham. "I saw none such arrive."

"You lie, you rascal," said Buckingham; "have you a right to remember
better than I do?"

"If your Grace will forgive me reminding you, you have scarce opened a
letter this week," said his gentleman.

"Did you ever hear such a provoking rascal?" said the Duke. "He might be a
witness in the Plot. He has knocked my character for regularity entirely
on the head with his damned counter-evidence."

"Your Grace's talent and capacity will at least remain unimpeached," said
Christian; "and it is those that must serve yourself and your friends. If
I might advise, you will hasten to Court, and lay some foundation for the
impression we wish to make. If your Grace can take the first word, and
throw out a hint to crossbite Saville, it will be well. But above all,
keep the King's ear employed, which no one can do so well as you. Leave
Chiffinch to fill his heart with a proper object. Another thing is, there
is a blockhead of an old Cavalier, who must needs be a bustler in the
Countess of Derby's behalf—he is fast in hold, with the whole tribe
of witnesses at his haunches."

"Nay, then, take him, Topham."

"Topham has taken him already, my lord," said Christian; "and there is,
besides, a young gallant, a son of the said Knight, who was bred in the
household of the Countess of Derby, and who has brought letters from her
to the Provincial of the Jesuits, and others in London."

"What are their names?" said the Duke dryly.

"Sir Geoffrey Peveril of Martindale Castle, in Derbyshire, and his son
Julian."

"What! Peveril of the Peak?" said the Duke,—"a stout old Cavalier as
ever swore an oath.—A Worcester-man, too—and, in truth, a man
of all work, when blows were going. I will not consent to his ruin,
Christian. These fellows must be flogged of such false scents—flogged
in every sense, they must, and will be, when the nation comes to its
eyesight again."

"It is of more than the last importance, in the meantime, to the
furtherance of our plan," said Christian, "that your Grace should stand
for a space between them and the King's favour. The youth hath influence
with the maiden, which we should find scarce favourable to our views;
besides, her father holds him as high as he can any one who is no such
puritanic fool as himself."

"Well, most Christian Christian," said the Duke, "I have heard your
commands at length. I will endeavour to stop the earths under the throne,
that neither the lord, knight, nor squire in question, shall find it
possible to burrow there. For the fair one, I must leave Chiffinch and you
to manage her introduction to her high destinies, since I am not to be
trusted. Adieu, most Christian Christian."

He fixed his eyes on him, and then exclaimed, as he shut the door of the
apartment,—"Most profligate and damnable villain! And what provokes
me most of all, is the knave's composed insolence. Your Grace will do this—and
your Grace will condescend to do that—A pretty puppet I should be,
to play the second part, or rather the third, in such a scheme! No, they
shall all walk according to my purpose, or I will cross them. I will find
this girl out in spite of them, and judge if their scheme is likely to be
successful. If so, she shall be mine—mine entirely, before she
becomes the King's; and I will command her who is to guide Charles.—Jerningham"
(his gentleman entered), "cause Christian to be dogged where-ever he goes,
for the next four-and-twenty hours, and find out where he visits a female
newly come to town.—You smile, you knave?"

"I did but suspect a fresh rival to Araminta and the little Countess,"
said Jerningham.

"Away to your business, knave," said the Duke, "and let me think of mine.—To
subdue a Puritan in Esse—a King's favourite in Posse—the very
muster of western beauties—that is point first. The impudence of
this Manx mongrel to be corrected—the pride of Madame la Duchesse to
be pulled down—and important state intrigue to be farthered, or
baffled, as circumstances render most to my own honour and glory—I
wished for business but now, and I have got enough of it. But Buckingham
will keep his own steerage-way through shoal and through weather."

CHAPTER XXIX

——Mark you this, Bassanio—
The devil can quote Scripture for his purpose.
—MERCHANT OF VENICE.

After leaving the proud mansion of the Duke of Buckingham, Christian, full
of the deep and treacherous schemes which he meditated, hastened to the
city, where, in a decent inn, kept by a person of his own persuasion, he
had been unexpectedly summoned to meet with Ralph Bridgenorth of
Moultrassie. He was not disappointed—the Major had arrived that
morning, and anxiously expected him. The usual gloom of his countenance
was darkened into a yet deeper shade of anxiety, which was scarcely
relieved, even while, in answer to his inquiry after his daughter,
Christian gave the most favourable account of her health and spirits,
naturally and unaffectedly intermingled with such praises of her beauty
and her disposition, as were likely to be most grateful to a father's ear.

But Christian had too much cunning to expatiate on this theme, however
soothing. He stopped short exactly at the point where, as an affectionate
relative, he might be supposed to have said enough. "The lady," he said,
"with whom he had placed Alice, was delighted with her aspect and manners,
and undertook to be responsible for her health and happiness. He had not,
he said, deserved so little confidence at the hand of his brother,
Bridgenorth, as that the Major should, contrary to his purpose, and to the
plan which they had adjusted together, have hurried up from the country,
as if his own presence were necessary for Alice's protection."

"Brother Christian," said Bridgenorth in reply, "I must see my child—I
must see this person with whom she is entrusted."

"To what purpose?" answered Christian. "Have you not often confessed that
the over excess of the carnal affection which you have entertained for
your daughter, hath been a snare to you?—Have you not, more than
once, been on the point of resigning those great designs which should
place righteousness as a counsellor beside the throne, because you desired
to gratify your daughter's girlish passion for this descendant of your old
persecutor—this Julian Peveril?"

"I own it," said Bridgenorth; "and worlds would I have given, and would
yet give, to clasp that youth to my bosom, and call him my son. The spirit
of his mother looks from his eye, and his stately step is as that of his
father, when he daily spoke comfort to me in my distress, and said, 'The
child liveth.'"

"But the youth walks," said Christian, "after his own lights, and mistakes
the meteor of the marsh for the Polar star. Ralph Bridgenorth, I will
speak to thee in friendly sincerity. Thou must not think to serve both the
good cause and Baal. Obey, if thou wilt, thine own carnal affections,
summon this Julian Peveril to thy house, and let him wed thy daughter—But
mark the reception she will meet with from the proud old knight, whose
spirit is now, even now, as little broken with his chains, as after the
sword of the Saints had prevailed at Worcester. Thou wilt see thy daughter
spurned from his feet like an outcast."

"Christian," said Bridgenorth, interrupting him, "thou dost urge me hard;
but thou dost it in love, my brother, and I forgive thee—Alice shall
never be spurned.—But this friend of thine—this lady—thou
art my child's uncle; and after me, thou art next to her in love and
affection—Still, thou art not her father—hast not her father's
fears. Art thou sure of the character of this woman to whom my child is
entrusted?"

"Am I sure of my own?—Am I sure that my name is Christian—yours
Bridgenorth?—Is it a thing I am likely to be insecure in?—Have
I not dwelt for many years in this city?—Do I not know this Court?—And
am I likely to be imposed upon? For I will not think you can fear my
imposing upon you."

"Thou art my brother," said Bridgenorth—"the blood and bone of my
departed Saint—and I am determined that I will trust thee in this
matter."

"Thou dost well," said Christian; "and who knows what reward may be in
store for thee?—I cannot look upon Alice, but it is strongly borne
in on my mind, that there will be work for a creature so excellent beyond
ordinary women. Courageous Judith freed Bethulia by her valour, and the
comely features of Esther made her a safeguard and a defence to her people
in the land of captivity, when she found favour in the sight of King
Ahasuerus."

"Be it with her as Heaven wills," said Bridgenorth; "and now tell me what
progress there is in the great work."

"The people are weary of the iniquity of this Court," said Christian; "and
if this man will continue to reign, it must be by calling to his councils
men of another stamp. The alarm excited by the damnable practices of the
Papists has called up men's souls, and awakened their eyes to the dangers
of their state.—He himself—for he will give up brother and
wife to save himself—is not averse to a change of measures; and
though we cannot at first see the Court purged as with a winnowing fan,
yet there will be enough of the good to control the bad—enough of
the sober party to compel the grant of that universal toleration, for
which we have sighed so long, as a maiden for her beloved. Time and
opportunity will lead the way to more thorough reformation; and that will
be done without stroke of sword, which our friends failed to establish on
a sure foundation, even when their victorious blades were in their hands."

"May God grant it!" said Bridgenorth; "for I fear me I should scruple to
do aught which should once more unsheath the civil sword; but welcome all
that comes in a peaceful and parliamentary way."

"Ay," said Christian, "and which will bring with it the bitter amends,
which our enemies have so long merited at our hands. How long hath our
brother's blood cried for vengeance from the altar!—Now shall that
cruel Frenchwoman find that neither lapse of years, nor her powerful
friends, nor the name of Stanley, nor the Sovereignty of Man, shall stop
the stern course of the pursuer of blood. Her name shall be struck from
the noble, and her heritage shall another take."

"Nay, but, brother Christian," said Bridgenorth, "art thou not over eager
in pursuing this thing?—It is thy duty as a Christian to forgive
thine enemies."

"Ay, but not the enemies of Heaven—not those who shed the blood of
the saints," said Christian, his eyes kindling that vehement and fiery
expression which at times gave to his uninteresting countenance the only
character of passion which it ever exhibited. "No, Bridgenorth," he
continued, "I esteem this purpose of revenge holy—I account it a
propitiatory sacrifice for what may have been evil in my life. I have
submitted to be spurned by the haughty—I have humbled myself to be
as a servant; but in my breast was the proud thought, I who do this—do
it that I may avenge my brother's blood."

"Still, my brother," said Bridgenorth, "although I participate thy
purpose, and have aided thee against this Moabitish woman, I cannot but
think thy revenge is more after the law of Moses than after the law of
love."

"This comes well from thee, Ralph Bridgenorth," answered Christian; "from
thee, who has just smiled over the downfall of thine own enemy."

"If you mean Sir Geoffrey Peveril," said Bridgenorth, "I smile not on his
ruin. It is well he is abased; but if it lies with me, I may humble his
pride, but will never ruin his house."

"You know your purpose best," said Christian; "and I do justice, brother
Bridgenorth, to the purity of your principles; but men who see with but
worldly eyes, would discern little purpose of mercy in the strict
magistrate and severe creditor—and such have you been to Peveril."

"And, brother Christian," said Bridgenorth, his colour rising as he spoke,
"neither do I doubt your purpose, nor deny the surprising address with
which you have procured such perfect information concerning the purposes
of yonder woman of Ammon. But it is free to me to think, that in your
intercourse with the Court, and with courtiers, you may, in your carnal
and worldly policy, sink the value of those spiritual gifts, for which you
were once so much celebrated among the brethren."

"Do not apprehend it," said Christian, recovering his temper, which had
been a little ruffled by the previous discussion. "Let us but work
together as heretofore; and I trust each of us shall be found doing the
work of a faithful servant to that good old cause for which we have
heretofore drawn the sword."

So saying, he took his hat, and bidding Bridgenorth farewell, declared his
intention of returning in the evening.

"Fare thee well!" said Bridgenorth; "to that cause wilt thou find me ever
a true and devoted adherent. I will act by that counsel of thine, and will
not even ask thee—though it may grieve my heart as a parent—with
whom, or where, thou hast entrusted my child. I will try to cut off, and
cast from me, even my right hand, and my right eye; but for thee,
Christian, if thou dost deal otherwise than prudently and honestly in this
matter, it is what God and man will require at thy hand."

"Fear not me," said Christian hastily, and left the place, agitated by
reflections of no pleasant kind.

"I ought to have persuaded him to return," he said, as he stepped out into
the street. "Even his hovering in this neighbourhood may spoil the plan on
which depends the rise of my fortunes—ay, and of his child's. Will
men say I have ruined her, when I shall have raised her to the dazzling
height of the Duchess of Portsmouth, and perhaps made her a mother to a
long line of princes? Chiffinch hath vouched for opportunity; and the
voluptuary's fortune depends upon his gratifying the taste of his master
for variety. If she makes an impression, it must be a deep one; and once
seated in his affections, I fear not her being supplanted.—What will
her father say? Will he, like a prudent man, put his shame in his pocket,
because it is well gilded? or will he think it fitting to make a display
of moral wrath and parental frenzy? I fear the latter—He has ever
kept too strict a course to admit his conniving at such licence. But what
will his anger avail?—I need not be seen in the matter—those
who are will care little for the resentment of a country Puritan. And
after all, what I am labouring to bring about is best for himself, the
wench, and above all, for me, Edward Christian."

With such base opiates did this unhappy wretch stifle his own conscience,
while anticipating the disgrace of his friend's family, and the ruin of a
near relative, committed in confidence to his charge. The character of
this man was of no common description; nor was it by an ordinary road that
he had arrived at the present climax of unfeeling and infamous
selfishness.

Edward Christian, as the reader is aware, was the brother of that William
Christian, who was the principal instrument in delivering up the Isle of
Man to the Republic, and who became the victim of the Countess of Derby's
revenge on that account. Both had been educated as Puritans, but William
was a soldier, which somewhat modified the strictness of his religious
opinions; Edward, a civilian, seemed to entertain these principles in the
utmost rigour. But it was only seeming. The exactness of deportment, which
procured him great honour and influence among the sober party, as
they were wont to term themselves, covered a voluptuous disposition, the
gratification of which was sweet to him as stolen waters, and pleasant as
bread eaten in secret. While, therefore, his seeming godliness brought him
worldly gain, his secret pleasures compensated for his outward austerity;
until the Restoration, and the Countess's violent proceedings against his
brother interrupted the course of both. He then fled from his native
island, burning with the desire of revenging his brother's death—the
only passion foreign to his own gratification which he was ever known to
cherish, and which was also, at least, partly selfish, since it concerned
the restoration of his own fortunes.

He found easy access to Villiers, Duke of Buckingham, who, in right of his
Duchess, claimed such of the Derby estate as had been bestowed by the
Parliament on his celebrated father-in-law, Lord Fairfax. His influence at
the Court of Charles, where a jest was a better plea than a long claim of
faithful service, was so successfully exerted, as to contribute greatly to
the depression of that loyal and ill-rewarded family. But Buckingham was
incapable, even for his own interest, of pursuing the steady course which
Christian suggested to him; and his vacillation probably saved the remnant
of the large estates of the Earl of Derby.

Meantime, Christian was too useful a follower to be dismissed. From
Buckingham, and others of that stamp, he did not affect to conceal the
laxity of his morals; but towards the numerous and powerful party to which
he belonged, he was able to disguise them by a seeming gravity of
exterior, which he never laid aside. Indeed, so wide and absolute was then
the distinction betwixt the Court and the city, that a man might have for
some time played two several parts, as in two different spheres, without
its being discovered in the one that he exhibited himself in a different
light in the other. Besides, when a man of talent shows himself an able
and useful partisan, his party will continue to protect and accredit him,
in spite of conduct the most contradictory to their own principles. Some
facts are, in such cases, denied—some are glossed over—and
party zeal is permitted to cover at least as many defects as ever doth
charity.

Edward Christian had often need of the partial indulgence of his friends;
but he experienced it, for he was eminently useful. Buckingham, and other
courtiers of the same class, however dissolute in their lives, were
desirous of keeping some connection with the Dissenting or Puritanic
party, as it was termed; thereby to strengthen themselves against their
opponents at Court. In such intrigues, Christian was a notable agent; and
at one time had nearly procured an absolute union between a class which
professed the most rigid principles of religion and morality, and the
latitudinarian courtiers, who set all principle at defiance.

Amidst the vicissitudes of a life of intrigue, during which Buckingham's
ambitious schemes, and his own, repeatedly sent him across the Atlantic,
it was Edward Christian's boast that he never lost sight of his principal
object,—revenge on the Countess of Derby. He maintained a close and
intimate correspondence with his native island, so as to be perfectly
informed of whatever took place there; and he stimulated, on every
favourable opportunity, the cupidity of Buckingham to possess himself of
this petty kingdom, by procuring the forfeiture of its present Lord. It
was not difficult to keep his patron's wild wishes alive on this topic,
for his own mercurial imagination attached particular charms to the idea
of becoming a sort of sovereign even in this little island; and he was,
like Catiline, as covetous of the property of others, as he was profuse of
his own.

But it was not until the pretended discovery of the Papist Plot that the
schemes of Christian could be brought to ripen; and then, so odious were
the Catholics in the eyes of the credulous people of England, that, upon
the accusation of the most infamous of mankind, common informers, the
scourings of jails, and the refuse of the whipping-post, the most
atrocious charges against persons of the highest rank and fairest
character were readily received and credited.

This was a period which Christian did not fail to improve. He drew close
his intimacy with Bridgenorth, which had indeed never been interrupted,
and readily engaged him in his schemes, which, in the eyes of his
brother-in-law, were alike honourable and patriotic. But, while he
flattered Bridgenorth with the achieving a complete reformation in the
state—checking the profligacy of the Court—relieving the
consciences of the Dissenters from the pressures of the penal laws—amending,
in fine, the crying grievances of the time—while he showed him also,
in prospect, revenge upon the Countess of Derby, and a humbling
dispensation on the house of Peveril, from whom Bridgenorth had suffered
such indignity, Christian did not neglect, in the meanwhile, to consider
how he could best benefit himself by the confidence reposed in him by his
unsuspicious relation.

The extreme beauty of Alice Bridgenorth—the great wealth which time
and economy had accumulated on her father—pointed her out as a most
desirable match to repair the wasted fortunes of some of the followers of
the Court; and he flattered himself that he could conduct such a
negotiation so as to be in a high degree conducive to his own advantage.
He found there would be little difficulty in prevailing on Major
Bridgenorth to entrust him with the guardianship of his daughter. That
unfortunate gentleman had accustomed himself, from the very period of her
birth, to regard the presence of his child as a worldly indulgence too
great to be allowed to him; and Christian had little trouble in convincing
him that the strong inclination which he felt to bestow her on Julian
Peveril, provided he could be brought over to his own political opinions,
was a blameable compromise with his more severe principles. Late
circumstances had taught him the incapacity and unfitness of Dame Debbitch
for the sole charge of so dear a pledge; and he readily and thankfully
embraced the kind offer of her maternal uncle, Christian, to place Alice
under the protection of a lady of rank in London, whilst he himself was to
be engaged in the scenes of bustle and blood, which, in common with all
good Protestants, he expected was speedily to take place on a general
rising of the Papists, unless prevented by the active and energetic
measures of the good people of England. He even confessed his fears, that
his partial regard for Alice's happiness might enervate his efforts in
behalf of his country; and Christian had little trouble in eliciting from
him a promise, that he would forbear to inquire after her for some time.

Thus certain of being the temporary guardian of his niece for a space long
enough, he flattered himself, for the execution of his purpose, Christian
endeavoured to pave the way by consulting Chiffinch, whose known skill in
Court policy qualified him best as an adviser on this occasion. But this
worthy person, being, in fact, a purveyor for his Majesty's pleasures, and
on that account high in his good graces, thought it fell within the line
of his duty to suggest another scheme than that on which Christian
consulted him. A woman of such exquisite beauty as Alice was described, he
deemed more worthy to be a partaker of the affections of the merry
Monarch, whose taste in female beauty was so exquisite, than to be made
the wife of some worn-out prodigal of quality. And then, doing perfect
justice to his own character, he felt it would not be one whit impaired,
while his fortune would be, in every respect, greatly amended, if, after
sharing the short reign of the Gwyns, the Davises, the Robertses, and so
forth, Alice Bridgenorth should retire from the state of a royal
favourite, into the humble condition of Mrs. Chiffinch.

After cautiously sounding Christian, and finding that the near prospect of
interest to himself effectually prevented his starting at this iniquitous
scheme, Chiffinch detailed it to him fully, carefully keeping the final
termination out of sight, and talking of the favour to be acquired by the
fair Alice as no passing caprice, but the commencement of a reign as long
and absolute as that of the Duchess of Portsmouth, of whose avarice and
domineering temper Charles was now understood to be much tired, though the
force of habit rendered him unequal to free himself of her yoke.

Thus chalked out, the scene prepared was no longer the intrigue of a Court
pander, and a villainous resolution for the ruin of an innocent girl, but
became a state intrigue, for the removal of an obnoxious favourite, and
the subsequent change of the King's sentiments upon various material
points, in which he was at present influenced by the Duchess of
Portsmouth. In this light it was exhibited to the Duke of Buckingham, who,
either to sustain his character for daring gallantry, or in order to
gratify some capricious fancy, had at one time made love to the reigning
favourite, and experienced a repulse which he had never forgiven.

But one scheme was too little to occupy the active and enterprising spirit
of the Duke. An appendix of the Popish Plot was easily so contrived as to
involve the Countess of Derby, who, from character and religion, was
precisely the person whom the credulous part of the public were inclined
to suppose the likely accomplice of such a conspiracy. Christian and
Bridgenorth undertook the perilous commission of attacking her even in her
own little kingdom of Man, and had commissions for this purpose, which
were only to be produced in case of their scheme taking effect.

It miscarried, as the reader is aware, from the Countess's alert
preparations for defence; and neither Christian nor Bridgenorth held it
sound policy to practise openly, even under parliamentary authority,
against a lady so little liable to hesitate upon the measures most likely
to secure her feudal sovereignty; wisely considering that even the
omnipotence, as it has been somewhat too largely styled, of Parliament,
might fail to relieve them from the personal consequences of a failure.

On the continent of Britain, however, no opposition was to be feared; and
so well was Christian acquainted with all the motions in the interior of
the Countess's little court, or household, that Peveril would have been
arrested the instant he set foot on shore, but for the gale of wind which
obliged the vessel, in which he was a passenger, to run for Liverpool.
Here Christian, under the name of Ganlesse, unexpectedly met with him, and
preserved him from the fangs of the well-breathed witnesses of the Plot,
with the purpose of securing his despatches, or, if necessary, his person
also, in such a manner as to place him at his own discretion—a
narrow and perilous game, which he thought it better, however, to
undertake, than to permit these subordinate agents, who were always ready
to mutiny against all in league with them, to obtain the credit which they
must have done by the seizure of the Countess of Derby's despatches. It
was, besides, essential to Buckingham's schemes that these should not pass
into the hands of a public officer like Topham, who, however pompous and
stupid, was upright and well-intentioned, until they had undergone the
revisal of a private committee, where something might have probably been
suppressed, even supposing that nothing had been added. In short,
Christian, in carrying on his own separate and peculiar intrigue, by the
agency of the Great Popish Plot, as it was called, acted just like an
engineer, who derives the principle of motion which turns his machinery,
by means of a steam-engine, or large water-wheel, constructed to drive a
separate and larger engine. Accordingly, he was determined that, while he
took all the advantage he could from their supposed discoveries, no one
should be admitted to tamper or interfere with his own plans of profit and
revenge.

Chiffinch, who, desirous of satisfying himself with his own eyes of that
excellent beauty which had been so highly extolled, had gone down to
Derbyshire on purpose, was infinitely delighted, when, during the course
of a two hours' sermon at the dissenting chapel in Liverpool, which
afforded him ample leisure for a deliberate survey, he arrived at the
conclusion that he had never seen a form or face more captivating. His
eyes having confirmed what was told him, he hurried back to the little inn
which formed their place of rendezvous, and there awaited Christian and
his niece, with a degree of confidence in the success of their project
which he had not before entertained; and with an apparatus of luxury,
calculated, as he thought, to make a favourable impression on the mind of
a rustic girl. He was somewhat surprised, when, instead of Alice
Bridgenorth, to whom he expected that night to have been introduced, he
found that Christian was accompanied by Julian Peveril. It was indeed a
severe disappointment, for he had prevailed on his own indolence to
venture this far from the Court, in order that he might judge, with his
own paramount taste, whether Alice was really the prodigy which her
uncle's praises had bespoken her, and, as such, a victim worthy of the
fate to which she was destined.

A few words betwixt the worthy confederates determined them on the plan of
stripping Peveril of the Countess's despatches; Chiffinch absolutely
refusing to take any share in arresting him, as a matter of which his
Master's approbation might be very uncertain.

Christian had also his own reasons for abstaining from so decisive a step.
It was by no means likely to be agreeable to Bridgenorth, whom it was
necessary to keep in good humour;—it was not necessary, for the
Countess's despatches were of far more importance than the person of
Julian. Lastly, it was superfluous in this respect also, that Julian was
on the road to his father's castle, where it was likely he would be
seized, as a matter of course, along with the other suspicious persons who
fell under Topham's warrant, and the denunciations of his infamous
companions. He, therefore, far from using any violence to Peveril, assumed
towards him such a friendly tone, as might seem to warn him against
receiving damage from others, and vindicate himself from having any share
in depriving him of his charge. This last manoeuvre was achieved by an
infusion of a strong narcotic into Julian's wine; under the influence of
which he slumbered so soundly, that the confederates were easily able to
accomplish their inhospitable purpose.

The events of the succeeding days are already known to the reader.
Chiffinch set forward to return to London, with the packet, which it was
desirable should be in Buckingham's hands as soon as possible; while
Christian went to Moultrassie, to receive Alice from her father, and
convey her safely to London—his accomplice agreeing to defer his
curiosity to see more of her until they should have arrived in that city.

Before parting with Bridgenorth, Christian had exerted his utmost address
to prevail on him to remain at Moultrassie; he had even overstepped the
bounds of prudence, and, by his urgency, awakened some suspicions of an
indefinite nature, which he found it difficult to allay. Bridgenorth,
therefore, followed his brother-in-law to London; and the reader has
already been made acquainted with the arts which Christian used to prevent
his farther interference with the destinies of his daughter, or the
unhallowed schemes of her ill-chosen guardian. Still Christian, as he
strode along the street in profound reflection, saw that his undertaking
was attended with a thousand perils; and the drops stood like beads on his
brow when he thought of the presumptuous levity and fickle temper of
Buckingham—the frivolity and intemperance of Chiffinch—the
suspicions of the melancholy and bigoted, yet sagacious and honest
Bridgenorth. "Had I," he thought, "but tools fitted, each to their portion
of the work, how easily could I heave asunder and disjoint the strength
that opposes me! But with these frail and insufficient implements, I am in
daily, hourly, momentary danger, that one lever or other gives way, and
that the whole ruin recoils on my own head. And yet, were it not for those
failings I complain of, how were it possible for me to have acquired that
power over them all which constitutes them my passive tools, even when
they seem most to exert their own free will? Yes, the bigots have some
right when they affirm that all is for the best."

It may seem strange, that, amidst the various subjects of Christian's
apprehension, he was never visited by any long or permanent doubt that the
virtue of his niece might prove the shoal on which his voyage should be
wrecked. But he was an arrant rogue, as well as a hardened libertine; and,
in both characters, a professed disbeliever in the virtue of the fair sex.

CHAPTER XXX

As for John Dryden's Charles, I own that King
Was never any very mighty thing;
And yet he was a devilish honest fellow—
Enjoy'd his friend and bottle, and got mellow.
—DR. WOLOOT.

London, the grand central point of intrigues of every description, had now
attracted within its dark and shadowy region the greater number of the
personages whom we have had occasion to mention.

Julian Peveril, amongst others of the dramatis personæ, had
arrived, and taken up his abode in a remote inn in the suburbs. His
business, he conceived, was to remain incognito until he should have
communicated in private with the friends who were most likely to lend
assistance to his parents, as well as to his patroness, in their present
situation of doubt and danger. Amongst these, the most powerful was the
Duke of Ormond, whose faithful services, high rank, and acknowledged worth
and virtue, still preserved an ascendancy in that very Court, where, in
general, he was regarded as out of favour. Indeed, so much consciousness
did Charles display in his demeanour towards that celebrated noble, and
servant of his father, that Buckingham once took the freedom to ask the
King whether the Duke of Ormond had lost his Majesty's favour, or his
Majesty the Duke's? since, whenever they chanced to meet, the King
appeared the more embarrassed of the two. But it was not Peveril's good
fortune to obtain the advice or countenance of this distinguished person.
His Grace of Ormond was not at that time in London.

The letter, about the delivery of which the Countess had seemed most
anxious after that to the Duke of Ormond, was addressed to Captain Barstow
(a Jesuit, whose real name was Fenwicke), to be found, or at least to be
heard of, in the house of one Martin Christal in the Savoy. To this place
hastened Peveril, upon learning the absence of the Duke of Ormond. He was
not ignorant of the danger which he personally incurred, by thus becoming
a medium of communication betwixt a Popish priest and a suspected
Catholic. But when he undertook the perilous commission of his patroness,
he had done so frankly, and with the unreserved resolution of serving her
in the manner in which she most desired her affairs to be conducted. Yet
he could not forbear some secret apprehension, when he felt himself
engaged in the labyrinth of passages and galleries, which led to different
obscure sets of apartments in the ancient building termed the Savoy.

This antiquated and almost ruinous pile occupied a part of the site of the
public offices in the Strand, commonly called Somerset House. The Savoy
had been formerly a palace, and took its name from an Earl of Savoy, by
whom it was founded. It had been the habitation of John of Gaunt, and
various persons of distinction—had become a convent, an hospital,
and finally, in Charles II.'s time, a waste of dilapidated buildings and
ruinous apartments, inhabited chiefly by those who had some connection
with, or dependence upon, the neighbouring palace of Somerset House,
which, more fortunate than the Savoy, had still retained its royal title,
and was the abode of a part of the Court, and occasionally of the King
himself, who had apartments there.

It was not without several inquiries, and more than one mistake, that, at
the end of a long and dusky passage, composed of boards so wasted by time
that they threatened to give way under his feet, Julian at length found
the name of Martin Christal, broker and appraiser, upon a shattered door.
He was about to knock, when some one pulled his cloak; and looking round,
to his great astonishment, which indeed almost amounted to fear, he saw
the little mute damsel, who had accompanied him for a part of the way on
his voyage from the Isle of Man.

"Fenella!" he exclaimed, forgetting that she could neither hear nor reply,—"Fenella!
Can this be you?"

Fenella, assuming the air of warning and authority, which she had
heretofore endeavoured to adopt towards him, interposed betwixt Julian and
the door at which he was about to knock—pointed with her finger
towards it in a prohibiting manner, and at the same time bent her brows,
and shook her head sternly.

After a moment's consideration, Julian could place but one interpretation
upon Fenella's appearance and conduct, and that was, by supposing her lady
had come up to London, and had despatched this mute attendant, as a
confidential person, to apprise him of some change of her intended
operations, which might render the delivery of her letters to Barstow, alias
Fenwicke, superfluous, or perhaps dangerous. He made signs to Fenella,
demanding to know whether she had any commission from the Countess. She
nodded. "Had she any letter?" he continued, by the same mode of inquiry.
She shook her head impatiently, and, walking hastily along the passage,
made a signal to him to follow. He did so, having little doubt that he was
about to be conducted into the Countess's presence; but his surprise, at
first excited by Fenella's appearance, was increased by the rapidity and
ease with which she seemed to track the dusky and decayed mazes of the
dilapidated Savoy, equal to that with which he had seen her formerly lead
the way through the gloomy vaults of Castle Rushin, in the Isle of Man.

When he recollected, however, that Fenella had accompanied the Countess on
a long visit to London, it appeared not improbable that she might then
have acquired this local knowledge which seemed so accurate. Many
foreigners, dependent on Queen or Queen Dowager, had apartments in the
Savoy. Many Catholic priests also found refuge in its recesses, under
various disguises, and in defiance of the severity of the laws against
Popery. What was more likely than that the Countess of Derby, a Catholic
and a Frenchwoman, should have had secret commissions amongst such people;
and that the execution of such should be entrusted, at least occasionally,
to Fenella?

Thus reflecting, Julian continued to follow her light and active footsteps
as she glided from the Strand to Spring-Garden, and thence into the Park.

It was still early in the morning, and the Mall was untenanted, save by a
few walkers, who frequented these shades for the wholesome purposes of air
and exercise. Splendour, gaiety, and display, did not come forth, at that
period, until noon was approaching. All readers have heard that the whole
space where the Horse Guards are now built, made, in the time of Charles
II., a part of St. James's Park; and that the old building, now called the
Treasury, was a part of the ancient Palace of Whitehall, which was thus
immediately connected with the Park. The canal had been constructed, by
the celebrated Le Notre, for the purpose of draining the Park; and it
communicated with the Thames by a decoy, stocked with a quantity of the
rarer waterfowl. It was towards this decoy that Fenella bent her way with
unabated speed; and they were approaching a group of two or three
gentlemen, who sauntered by its banks, when, on looking closely at him who
appeared to be the chief of the party, Julian felt his heart beat
uncommonly thick, as if conscious of approaching some one of the highest
consequence.

The person whom he looked upon was past the middle age of life, of a dark
complexion, corresponding with the long, black, full-bottomed periwig,
which he wore instead of his own hair. His dress was plain black velvet,
with a diamond star, however, on his cloak, which hung carelessly over one
shoulder. His features, strongly lined, even to harshness, had yet an
expression of dignified good-humour; he was well and strongly built,
walked upright and yet easily, and had upon the whole the air of a person
of the highest consideration. He kept rather in advance of his companions,
but turned and spoke to them, from time to time, with much affability, and
probably with some liveliness, judging by the smiles, and sometimes the
scarce restrained laughter, by which some of his sallies were received by
his attendants. They also wore only morning dresses; but their looks and
manner were those of men of rank, in presence of one in station still more
elevated. They shared the attention of their principal in common with
seven or eight little black curly-haired spaniels, or rather, as they are
now called, cockers, which attended their master as closely, and perhaps
with as deep sentiments of attachment, as the bipeds of the group; and
whose gambols, which seemed to afford him much amusement, he sometimes
checked, and sometimes encouraged. In addition to this pastime, a lackey,
or groom, was also in attendance, with one or two little baskets and bags,
from which the gentleman we have described took, from time to time, a
handful of seeds, and amused himself with throwing them to the waterfowl.

This the King's favourite occupation, together with his remarkable
countenance, and the deportment of the rest of the company towards him,
satisfied Julian Peveril that he was approaching, perhaps indecorously,
near the person of Charles Stewart, the second of that unhappy name.

While he hesitated to follow his dumb guide any nearer, and felt the
embarrassment of being unable to communicate to her his repugnance to
further intrusion, a person in the royal retinue touched a light and
lively air on the flageolet, at a signal from the King, who desired to
have some tune repeated which had struck him in the theatre on the
preceding evening. While the good-natured monarch marked time with his
foot, and with the motion of his hand, Fenella continued to approach him,
and threw into her manner the appearance of one who was attracted, as it
were in spite of herself, by the sounds of the instrument.

Anxious to know how this was to end, and astonished to see the dumb girl
imitate so accurately the manner of one who actually heard the musical
notes, Peveril also drew near, though at somewhat greater distance.

The King looked good-humouredly at both, as if he admitted their musical
enthusiasm as an excuse for their intrusion; but his eyes became riveted
on Fenella, whose face and appearance, although rather singular than
beautiful, had something in them wild, fantastic, and, as being so, even
captivating, to an eye which had been gratified perhaps to satiety with
the ordinary forms of female beauty. She did not appear to notice how
closely she was observed; but, as if acting under an irresistible impulse,
derived from the sounds to which she seemed to listen, she undid the
bodkin round which her long tresses were winded, and flinging them
suddenly over her slender person, as if using them as a natural veil, she
began to dance, with infinite grace and agility, to the tune which the
flageolet played.

Peveril lost almost his sense of the King's presence, when he observed
with what wonderful grace and agility Fenella kept time to notes, which
could only be known to her by the motions of the musician's fingers. He
had heard, indeed, among other prodigies, of a person in Fenella's unhappy
situation acquiring, by some unaccountable and mysterious tact, the power
of acting as an instrumental musician, nay, becoming so accurate a
performer as to be capable of leading a musical band; and he also heard of
deaf and dumb persons dancing with sufficient accuracy, by observing the
motions of their partner. But Fenella's performance seemed more wonderful
than either, since the musician was guided by his written notes, and the
dancer by the motions of the others; whereas Fenella had no intimation,
save what she seemed to gather, with infinite accuracy, by observing the
motion of the artist's fingers on his small instrument.

As for the King, who was ignorant of the particular circumstances which
rendered Fenella's performance almost marvellous, he was contented, at her
first commencement, to authorise what seemed to him the frolic of this
singular-looking damsel, by a good-natured smile, but when he perceived
the exquisite truth and justice, as well as the wonderful combination of
grace and agility, with which she executed to this favourite air a dance
which was perfectly new to him, Charles turned his mere acquiescence into
something like enthusiastic applause. He bore time to her motions with the
movement of his foot—applauded with head and with hand—and
seemed, like herself, carried away by the enthusiasm of the gestic art.

After a rapid yet graceful succession of entrechats, Fenella
introduced a slow movement, which terminated the dance; then dropping a
profound courtesy, she continued to stand motionless before the King, her
arms folded on her bosom, her head stooped, and her eyes cast down, after
the manner of an Oriental slave; while through the misty veil of her
shadowy locks, it might be observed, that the colour which exercise had
called to her cheeks was dying fast away, and resigning them to their
native dusky hue.

"By my honour," exclaimed the King, "she is like a fairy who trips it in
moonlight. There must be more of air and fire than of earth in her
composition. It is well poor Nelly Gwyn saw her not, or she would have
died of grief and envy. Come, gentlemen, which of you contrived this
pretty piece of morning pastime?"

The courtiers looked at each other, but none of them felt authorised to
claim the merit of a service so agreeable.

"We must ask the quick-eyed nymph herself then," said the King; and,
looking at Fenella, he added, "Tell us, my pretty one, to whom we owe the
pleasure of seeing you?—I suspect the Duke of Buckingham; for this
is exactly a tour de son métier."

Fenella, on observing that the King addressed her, bowed low, and shook
her head, in signal that she did not understand what he said. "Oddsfish,
that is true," said the King; "she must perforce be a foreigner—her
complexion and agility speak it. France or Italy has had the moulding of
those elastic limbs, dark cheek, and eye of fire." He then put to her in
French, and again in Italian, the question, "By whom she had been sent
hither?"

At the second repetition, Fenella threw back her veiling tresses, so as to
show the melancholy which sat on her brow; while she sadly shook her head,
and intimated by imperfect muttering, but of the softest and most
plaintive kind, her organic deficiency.

"Is it possible Nature can have made such a fault?" said Charles. "Can she
have left so curious a piece as thou art without the melody of voice,
whilst she has made thee so exquisitely sensible to the beauty of sound?—Stay:
what means this? and what young fellow are you bringing up there? Oh, the
master of the show, I suppose.—Friend," he added, addressing himself
to Peveril, who, on the signal of Fenella, stepped forward almost
instinctively, and kneeled down, "we thank thee for the pleasure of this
morning.—My Lord Marquis, you rooked me at piquet last night; for
which disloyal deed thou shalt now atone, by giving a couple of pieces to
this honest youth, and five to the girl."

As the nobleman drew out his purse and came forward to perform the King's
generous commission, Julian felt some embarrassment ere he was able to
explain, that he had not title to be benefited by the young person's
performance, and that his Majesty had mistaken his character.

"And who art thou, then, my friend?" said Charles; "but, above all, and
particularly, who is this dancing nymph, whom thou standest waiting on
like an attendant fawn?"

"The young person is a retainer of the Countess-Dowager of Derby, so
please your Majesty," said Peveril, in a low tone of voice; "and I am——"

"Hold, hold," said the King; "this is a dance to another tune, and not fit
for a place so public. Hark thee, friend; do thou and the young woman
follow Empson where he will conduct thee.—Empson, carry them—hark
in thy ear."

"May it please your Majesty, I ought to say," said Peveril, "that I am
guiltless of any purpose of intrusion——"

"Now a plague on him who can take no hint," said the King, cutting short
his apology. "Oddsfish, man, there are times when civility is the greatest
impertinence in the world. Do thou follow Empson, and amuse thyself for a
half-hour's space with the fairy's company, till we shall send for you."

Charles spoke this not without casting an anxious eye around, and in a
tone which intimated apprehension of being overheard. Julian could only
bow obedience, and follow Empson, who was the same person that played so
rarely on the flageolet.

When they were out of sight of the King and his party, the musician wished
to enter into conversation with his companions, and addressed himself
first to Fenella with a broad compliment of, "By the mass, ye dance rarely—ne'er
a slut on the boards shows such a shank! I would be content to play to you
till my throat were as dry as my whistle. Come, be a little free—old
Rowley will not quit the Park till nine. I will carry you to
Spring-Garden, and bestow sweet-cakes and a quart of Rhenish on both of
you; and we'll be cameradoes,—What the devil? no answer?—How's
this, brother?—Is this neat wench of yours deaf or dumb or both? I
should laugh at that, and she trip it so well to the flageolet."

To rid himself of this fellow's discourse, Peveril answered him in French,
that he was a foreigner, and spoke no English; glad to escape, though at
the expense of a fiction, from the additional embarrassment of a fool, who
was likely to ask more questions than his own wisdom might have enabled
him to answer.

"Étranger—that means stranger," muttered their guide; "more
French dogs and jades come to lick the good English butter of our bread,
or perhaps an Italian puppet-show. Well if it were not that they have a
mortal enmity to the whole gamut, this were enough to make any
honest fellow turn Puritan. But if I am to play to her at the Duchess's,
I'll be d—d but I put her out in the tune, just to teach her to have
the impudence to come to England, and to speak no English."

Having muttered to himself this truly British resolution, the musician
walked briskly on towards a large house near the bottom of St. James's
Street, and entered the court, by a grated door from the Park, of which
the mansion commanded an extensive prospect.

Peveril finding himself in front of a handsome portico, under which opened
a stately pair of folding-doors, was about to ascend the steps that led to
the main entrance, when his guide seized him by the arm, exclaiming.
"Hold, Mounseer! What! you'll lose nothing, I see, for want of courage;
but you must keep the back way, for all your fine doublet. Here it is not,
knock, and it shall be opened; but may be instead, knock and you shall be
knocked."

Suffering himself to be guided by Empson, Julian deviated from the
principal door, to one which opened, with less ostentation, in an angle of
the courtyard. On a modest tap from the flute-player, admittance was
afforded him and his companions by a footman, who conducted them through a
variety of stone passages, to a very handsome summer parlour, where a
lady, or something resembling one, dressed in a style of extra elegance,
was trifling with a play-book while she finished her chocolate. It would
not be easy to describe her, but by weighing her natural good qualities
against the affectations which counterbalanced them. She would have been
handsome, but for rouge and minauderie—would have been civil,
but for overstrained airs of patronage and condescension—would have
had an agreeable voice, had she spoken in her natural tone—and fine
eyes, had she not made such desperate hard use of them. She could only
spoil a pretty ankle by too liberal display; but her shape, though she
could not yet be thirty years old, had the embon-point which might have
suited better with ten years more advanced. She pointed Empson to a seat
with the air of a Duchess, and asked him, languidly, how he did this age,
that she had not seen him? and what folks these were he had brought with
him?

"Foreigners, madam; d—d foreigners," answered Empson; "starving
beggars, that our old friend has picked up in the Park this morning—the
wench dances, and the fellow plays on the Jew's trump, I believe. On my
life, madam, I begin to be ashamed of old Rowley; I must discard him,
unless he keeps better company in future."

"Fie, Empson," said the lady; "consider it is our duty to countenance him,
and keep him afloat; and indeed I always make a principle of it. Hark ye,
he comes not hither this morning?"

"He will be here," answered Empson, "in the walking of a minuet."

"My God!" exclaimed the lady, with unaffected alarm; and starting up with
utter neglect of her usual and graceful languor, she tripped as swiftly as
a milk-maid into an adjoining apartment, where they heard presently a few
words of eager and animated discussion.

"Something to be put out of the way, I suppose," said Empson. "Well for
madam I gave her the hint. There he goes, the happy swain."

Julian was so situated, that he could, from the same casement through
which Empson was peeping, observe a man in a laced roquelaure, and
carrying his rapier under his arm, glide from the door by which he had
himself entered, and out of the court, keeping as much as possible under
the shade of the buildings.

The lady re-entered at this moment, and observing how Empson's eyes were
directed, said with a slight appearance of hurry, "A gentleman of the
Duchess of Portsmouth's with a billet; and so tiresomely pressing for an
answer, that I was obliged to write without my diamond pen. I have daubed
my fingers, I dare say," she added, looking at a very pretty hand, and
presently after dipping her fingers in a little silver vase of rose-water.
"But that little exotic monster of yours, Empson, I hope she really
understands no English?—On my life she coloured.—Is she such a
rare dancer?—I must see her dance, and hear him play on the Jew's
harp."

"Dance!" replied Empson; "she danced well enough when I played to
her. I can make anything dance. Old Counsellor Clubfoot danced when he had
a fit of the gout; you have seen no such pas seul in the theatre. I
would engage to make the Archbishop of Canterbury dance the hays like a
Frenchman. There is nothing in dancing; it all lies in the music. Rowley
does not know that now. He saw this poor wench dance; and thought so much
on't, when it was all along of me. I would have defied her to sit still.
And Rowley gives her the credit of it, and five pieces to boot; and I have
only two for my morning's work!"

"True, Master Empson," said the lady; "but you are of the family, though
in a lower station; and you ought to consider——"

"By G—, madam," answered Empson, "all I consider is, that I play the
best flageolet in England; and that they can no more supply my place, if
they were to discard me, than they could fill Thames from Fleet-Ditch."

"Well, Master Empson, I do not dispute but you are a man of talents,"
replied the lady; "still, I say, mind the main chance—you please the
ear to-day—another has the advantage of you to-morrow."

"Never, mistress, while ears have the heavenly power of distinguishing one
note from another."

"Heavenly power, say you, Master Empson?" said the lady.

"Ay, madam, heavenly; for some very neat verses which we had at our
festival say,

'What know we of the blest above,
But that they sing and that they love?'

It is Master Waller wrote them, as I think; who, upon my word, ought to be
encouraged."

"And so should you, my dear Empson," said the dame, yawning, "were it only
for the honour you do to your own profession. But in the meantime, will
you ask these people to have some refreshment?—and will you take
some yourself?—the chocolate is that which the Ambassador Portuguese
fellow brought over to the Queen."

"If it be genuine," said the musician.

"How, sir?" said the fair one, half rising from her pile of cushions—"Not
genuine, and in this house!—Let me understand you, Master Empson—I
think, when I first saw you, you scarce knew chocolate from coffee."

"By G—, madam," answered the flageolet-player, "you are perfectly
right. And how can I show better how much I have profited by your
ladyship's excellent cheer, except by being critical?"

"You stand excused, Master Empson," said the petite maitresse,
sinking gently back on the downy couch, from which a momentary irritation
had startled her—"I think the chocolate will please you, though
scarce equal to what we had from the Spanish resident Mendoza.—But
we must offer these strange people something. Will you ask them if they
would have coffee and chocolate, or cold wild-fowl, fruit, and wine? They
must be treated, so as to show them where they are, since here they are."

"Unquestionably, madam," said Empson; "but I have just at this instant
forgot the French for chocolate, hot bread, coffee, game, and drinkables."

"It is odd," said the lady; "and I have forgot my French and Italian at
the same moment. But it signifies little—I will order the things to
be brought, and they will remember the names of them themselves."

Empson laughed loudly at this jest, and pawned his soul that the cold
sirloin which entered immediately after, was the best emblem of roast-beef
all the world over. Plentiful refreshments were offered to all the party,
of which both Fenella and Peveril partook.

In the meanwhile, the flageolet-player drew closer to the side of the lady
of the mansion—their intimacy was cemented, and their spirits set
afloat, by a glass of liqueur, which gave them additional confidence in
discussing the characters, as well of the superior attendants of the
Court, as of the inferior rank, to which they themselves might be supposed
to belong.

The lady, indeed, during this conversation, frequently exerted her
complete and absolute superiority over Master Empson; in which that
musical gentleman humbly acquiesced whenever the circumstance was recalled
to his attention, whether in the way of blunt contradiction, sarcastic
insinuation, downright assumption of higher importance, or in any of the
other various modes by which such superiority is usually asserted and
maintained. But the lady's obvious love of scandal was the lure which very
soon brought her again down from the dignified part which for a moment she
assumed, and placed her once more on a gossiping level with her companion.

Their conversation was too trivial, and too much allied to petty Court
intrigues, with which he was totally unacquainted, to be in the least
interesting to Julian. As it continued for more than an hour, he soon
ceased to pay the least attention to a discourse consisting of nicknames,
patchwork, and innuendo; and employed himself in reflecting on his own
complicated affairs, and the probable issue of his approaching audience
with the King, which had been brought about by so singular an agent, and
by means so unexpected. He often looked to his guide, Fenella; and
observed that she was, for the greater part of the time, drowned in deep
and abstracted meditation. But three or four times—and it was when
the assumed airs and affected importance of the musician and their hostess
rose to the most extravagant excess—he observed that Fenella dealt
askance on them some of those bitter and almost blighting elfin looks,
which in the Isle of Man were held to imply contemptuous execration. There
was something in all her manner so extraordinary, joined to her sudden
appearance, and her demeanour in the King's presence, so oddly, yet so
well contrived to procure him a private audience—which he might, by
graver means, have sought in vain—that it almost justified the idea,
though he smiled at it internally, that the little mute agent was aided in
her machinations by the kindred imps, to whom, according to Manx
superstition, her genealogy was to be traced.

Another idea sometimes occurred to Julian, though he rejected the
question, as being equally wild with those doubts which referred Fenella
to a race different from that of mortals—"Was she really afflicted
with those organical imperfections which had always seemed to sever her
from humanity?—If not, what could be the motives of so young a
creature practising so dreadful a penance for such an unremitted term of
years? And how formidable must be the strength of mind which could condemn
itself to so terrific a sacrifice—How deep and strong the purpose
for which it was undertaken!"

But a brief recollection of past events enabled him to dismiss this
conjecture as altogether wild and visionary. He had but to call to memory
the various stratagems practised by his light-hearted companion, the young
Earl of Derby, upon this forlorn girl—the conversations held in her
presence, in which the character of a creature so irritable and sensitive
upon all occasions, was freely, and sometimes satirically discussed,
without her expressing the least acquaintance with what was going forward,
to convince him that so deep a deception could never have been practised
for so many years, by a being of a turn of mind so peculiarly jealous and
irascible.

He renounced, therefore, the idea, and turned his thoughts to his own
affairs, and his approaching interview with his Sovereign; in which
meditation we propose to leave him, until we briefly review the changes
which had taken place in the situation of Alice Bridgenorth.

CHAPTER XXXI

I fear the devil worst when gown and cassock,
Or, in the lack of them, old Calvin's cloak,
Conceals his cloven hoof.
—ANONYMOUS.

Julian Peveril had scarce set sail for Whitehaven, when Alice Bridgenorth
and her governante, at the hasty command of her father, were embarked with
equal speed and secrecy on board of a bark bound for Liverpool. Christian
accompanied them on their voyage, as the friend to whose guardianship
Alice was to be consigned during any future separation from her father,
and whose amusing conversation, joined to his pleasing though cold
manners, as well as his near relationship, induced Alice, in her forlorn
situation, to consider her fate as fortunate in having such a guardian.

At Liverpool, as the reader already knows, Christian took the first overt
step in the villainy which he had contrived against the innocent girl, by
exposing her at a meeting-house to the unhallowed gaze of Chiffinch, in
order to convince him she was possessed of such uncommon beauty as might
well deserve the infamous promotion to which they meditated to raise her.

Highly satisfied with her personal appearance, Chiffinch was no less so
with the sense and delicacy of her conversation, when he met her in
company with her uncle afterwards in London. The simplicity, and at the
same time the spirit of her remarks, made him regard her as his scientific
attendant the cook might have done a newly invented sauce, sufficiently piquante
in its qualities to awaken the jaded appetite of a cloyed and gorged
epicure. She was, he said and swore, the very corner-stone on which, with
proper management, and with his instruction, a few honest fellows might
build a Court fortune.

That the necessary introduction might take place, the confederates judged
fit she should be put under the charge of an experienced lady, whom some
called Mistress Chiffinch, and others Chiffinch's mistress—one of
those obliging creatures who are willing to discharge all the duties of a
wife, without the inconvenient and indissoluble ceremony.

It was one, and not perhaps the least prejudicial consequence of the
license of that ill-governed time, that the bounds betwixt virtue and vice
were so far smoothed down and levelled, that the frail wife, or the tender
friend who was no wife, did not necessarily lose their place in society;
but, on the contrary, if they moved in the higher circles, were permitted
and encouraged to mingle with women whose rank was certain, and whose
reputation was untainted.

A regular liaison, like that of Chiffinch and his fair one,
inferred little scandal; and such was his influence, as prime minister of
his master's pleasures, that, as Charles himself expressed it, the lady
whom we introduced to our readers in the last chapter, had obtained a
brevet commission to rank as a married woman. And to do the gentle dame
justice, no wife could have been more attentive to forward his plans, or
more liberal in disposing of his income.

She inhabited a set of apartments called Chiffinch's—the scene of
many an intrigue, both of love and politics; and where Charles often held
his private parties for the evening, when, as frequently happened, the
ill-humour of the Duchess of Portsmouth, his reigning Sultana, prevented
his supping with her. The hold which such an arrangement gave a man like
Chiffinch, used as he well knew how to use it, made him of too much
consequence to be slighted even by the first persons in the state, unless
they stood aloof from all manner of politics and Court intrigue.

In the charge of Mistress Chiffinch, and of him whose name she bore,
Edward Christian placed the daughter of his sister, and of his confiding
friend, calmly contemplating her ruin as an event certain to follow; and
hoping to ground upon it his own chance of a more assured fortune, than a
life spent in intrigue had hitherto been able to procure for him.

The innocent Alice, without being able to discover what was wrong either
in the scenes of unusual luxury with which she was surrounded, or in the
manners of her hostess, which, both from nature and policy, were kind and
caressing—felt nevertheless an instinctive apprehension that all was
not right—a feeling in the human mind, allied, perhaps, to that
sense of danger which animals exhibit when placed in the vicinity of the
natural enemies of their race, and which makes birds cower when the hawk
is in the air, and beasts tremble when the tiger is abroad in the desert.
There was a heaviness at her heart which she could not dispel; and the few
hours which she had already spent at Chiffinch's were like those passed in
prison by one unconscious of the cause or event of his captivity. It was
the third morning after her arrival in London, that the scene took place
which we now recur to.

The impertinence and vulgarity of Empson, which was permitted to him as an
unrivalled performer upon his instrument, were exhausting themselves at
the expense of all other musical professors, and Mrs. Chiffinch was
listening with careless indifference, when some one was heard speaking
loudly, and with animation, in the inner apartment.

"Oh, gemini and gilliflower water!" exclaimed the damsel, startled out of
her fine airs into her natural vulgarity of exclamation, and running to
the door of communication—"if he has not come back again after all!—and
if old Rowley——"

A tap at the farther and opposite door here arrested her attention—she
quitted the handle of that which she was about to open as speedily as if
it had burnt her fingers, and, moving back towards her couch, asked, "Who
is there?"

"Old Rowley himself, madam," said the King, entering the apartment with
his usual air of easy composure.

"O crimini!—your Majesty!—I thought——"

"That I was out of hearing, doubtless," said the King; "and spoke of me as
folk speak of absent friends. Make no apology. I think I have heard ladies
say of their lace, that a rent is better than a darn.—Nay, be
seated.—Where is Chiffinch?"

"He is down at York House, your Majesty," said the dame, recovering,
though with no small difficulty, the calm affectation of her usual
demeanour. "Shall I send your Majesty's commands?"

"I will wait his return," said the King.—"Permit me to taste your
chocolate."

"There is some fresh frothed in the office," said the lady; and using a
little silver call, or whistle, a black boy, superbly dressed, like an
Oriental page, with gold bracelets on his naked arms, and a gold collar
around his equally bare neck, attended with the favourite beverage of the
morning, in an apparatus of the richest china.

While he sipped his cup of chocolate, the King looked round the apartment,
and observing Fenella, Peveril, and the musician, who remained standing
beside a large Indian screen, he continued, addressing Mistress Chiffinch,
though with polite indifference, "I sent you the fiddles this morning—or
rather the flute—Empson, and a fairy elf whom I met in the Park, who
dances divinely. She has brought us the very newest saraband from the
Court of Queen Mab, and I sent her here, that you may see it at leisure."

"Your Majesty does me by far too much honour," said Chiffinch, her eyes
properly cast down, and her accents minced into becoming humility.

"Nay, little Chiffinch," answered the King, in a tone of as contemptuous
familiarity as was consistent with his good-breeding, "it was not
altogether for thine own private ear, though quite deserving of all sweet
sounds; but I thought Nelly had been with thee this morning."

"I can send Bajazet for her, your Majesty," answered the lady.

"Nay, I will not trouble your little heathen sultan to go so far. Still it
strikes me that Chiffinch said you had company—some country cousin,
or such a matter—Is there not such a person?"

"There is a young person from the country," said Mistress Chiffinch,
striving to conceal a considerable portion of embarrassment; "but she is
unprepared for such an honour as to be admitted into your Majesty's
presence, and——"

"And therefore the fitter to receive it, Chiffinch. There is nothing in
nature so beautiful as the first blush of a little rustic between joy and
fear, and wonder and curiosity. It is the down on the peach—pity it
decays so soon!—the fruit remains, but the first high colouring and
exquisite flavour are gone.—Never put up thy lip for the matter,
Chiffinch, for it is as I tell you; so pray let us have la belle
cousine."

Mistress Chiffinch, more embarrassed than ever, again advanced towards the
door of communication, which she had been in the act of opening when his
Majesty entered. But just as she coughed pretty loudly, perhaps as a
signal to some one within, voices were again heard in a raised tone of
altercation——the door was flung open, and Alice rushed out of
the inner apartment, followed to the door of it by the enterprising Duke
of Buckingham, who stood fixed with astonishment on finding his pursuit of
the flying fair one had hurried him into the presence of the King.

Alice Bridgenorth appeared too much transported with anger to permit her
to pay attention to the rank or character of the company into which she
had thus suddenly entered. "I remain no longer here, madam," she said to
Mrs. Chiffinch, in a tone of uncontrollable resolution; "I leave instantly
a house where I am exposed to company which I detest, and to solicitations
which I despise."

The dismayed Mrs. Chiffinch could only implore her, in broken whispers, to
be silent; adding, while she pointed to Charles, who stood with his eyes
fixed rather on his audacious courtier than on the game which he pursued,
"The King—the King!"

"If I am in the King's presence," said Alice aloud, and in the same
torrent of passionate feeling, while her eye sparkled through tears of
resentment and insulted modesty, "it is the better—it is his
Majesty's duty to protect me; and on his protection I throw myself."

These words, which were spoken aloud, and boldly, at once recalled Julian
to himself, who had hitherto stood, as it were, bewildered. He approached
Alice, and, whispering in her ear that she had beside her one who would
defend her with his life, implored her to trust to his guardianship in
this emergency.

Clinging to his arm in all the ecstasy of gratitude and joy, the spirit
which had so lately invigorated Alice in her own defence, gave way in a
flood of tears, when she saw herself supported by him whom perhaps she
most wished to recognise as her protector. She permitted Peveril gently to
draw her back towards the screen before which he had been standing; where,
holding by his arm, but at the same time endeavouring to conceal herself
behind him, they waited the conclusion of a scene so singular.

The King seemed at first so much surprised at the unexpected apparition of
the Duke of Buckingham, as to pay little or no attention to Alice, who had
been the means of thus unceremoniously introducing his Grace into the
presence at a most unsuitable moment. In that intriguing Court, it had not
been the first time that the Duke had ventured to enter the lists of
gallantry in rivalry of his Sovereign, which made the present insult the
more intolerable. His purpose of lying concealed in those private
apartments was explained by the exclamations of Alice; and Charles,
notwithstanding the placidity of his disposition, and his habitual guard
over his passions, resented the attempt to seduce his destined mistress,
as an Eastern Sultan would have done the insolence of a vizier, who
anticipated his intended purchases of captive beauty in the slave-market.
The swarthy features of Charles reddened, and the strong lines on his dark
visage seemed to become inflated, as he said, in a voice which faltered
with passion, "Buckingham, you dared not have thus insulted your equal! To
your master you may securely offer any affront, since his rank glues his
sword to the scabbard."

The haughty Duke did not brook this taunt unanswered. "My sword," he said,
with emphasis, "was never in the scabbard, when your Majesty's service
required it should be unsheathed."

"Your Grace means, when its service was required for its master's
interest," said the King; "for you could only gain the coronet of a Duke
by fighting for the royal crown. But it is over—I have treated you
as a friend—a companion—almost an equal—you have repaid
me with insolence and ingratitude."

"Sire," answered the Duke firmly, but respectfully, "I am unhappy in your
displeasure; yet thus far fortunate, that while your words can confer
honour, they cannot impair or take it away.—It is hard," he added,
lowering his voice, so as only to be heard by the King,—"It is hard
that the squall of a peevish wench should cancel the services of so many
years!"

"It is harder," said the King, in the same subdued tone, which both
preserved through the rest of the conversation, "that a wench's bright
eyes can make a nobleman forget the decencies due to his Sovereign's
privacy."

"May I presume to ask your Majesty what decencies are those?" said the
Duke.

Charles bit his lip to keep himself from smiling. "Buckingham," he said,
"this is a foolish business; and we must not forget (as we have nearly
done), that we have an audience to witness this scene, and should walk the
stage with dignity. I will show you your fault in private."

"It is enough that your Majesty has been displeased, and that I have
unhappily been the occasion," said the Duke, kneeling; "although quite
ignorant of any purpose beyond a few words of gallantry; and I sue thus
low for your Majesty's pardon."

So saying, he kneeled gracefully down. "Thou hast it, George," said the
placable Prince. "I believe thou wilt be sooner tired of offending than I
of forgiving."

"Long may your Majesty live to give the offence, with which it is your
royal pleasure at present to charge my innocence," said the Duke.

"What mean you by that, my lord?" said Charles, the angry shade returning
to his brow for a moment.

"My Liege," replied the Duke, "you are too honourable to deny your custom
of shooting with Cupid's bird-bolts in other men's warrens. You have ta'en
the royal right of free-forestry over every man's park. It is hard that
you should be so much displeased at hearing a chance arrow whizz near your
own pales."

"No more on't," said the King; "but let us see where the dove has
harboured."

"The Helen has found a Paris while we were quarrelling," replied the Duke.

"Rather an Orpheus," said the King; "and what is worse, one that is
already provided with a Eurydice—She is clinging to the fiddler."

"It is mere fright," said Buckingham, "like Rochester's, when he crept
into the bass-viol to hide himself from Sir Dermot O'Cleaver."

"We must make the people show their talents," said the King, "and stop
their mouths with money and civility, or we shall have this foolish
encounter over half the town."

The King then approached Julian, and desired him to take his instrument,
and cause his female companion to perform a saraband.

"I had already the honour to inform your Majesty," said Julian, "that I
cannot contribute to your pleasure in the way you command me; and that
this young person is——"

"A retainer of the Lady Powis," said the King, upon whose mind things not
connected with his pleasures made a very slight impression. "Poor lady,
she is in trouble about the lords in the Tower."

"Pardon me, sir," said Julian, "she is a dependant of the Countess of
Derby."

"True, true," answered Charles; "it is indeed of Lady Derby, who hath also
her own distresses in these times. Do you know who taught the young person
to dance? Some of her steps mightily resemble Le Jeune's of Paris."

"I presume she was taught abroad, sir," said Julian; "for myself, I am
charged with some weighty business by the Countess, which I would
willingly communicate to your Majesty."

"We will send you to our Secretary of State," said the King. "But this
dancing envoy will oblige us once more, will she not?—Empson, now
that I remember, it was to your pipe that she danced—Strike up, man,
and put mettle into her feet."

Empson began to play a well-known measure; and, as he had threatened, made
more than one false note, until the King, whose ear was very accurate,
rebuked him with, "Sirrah, art thou drunk at this early hour, or must thou
too be playing thy slippery tricks with me? Thou thinkest thou art born to
beat time, but I will have time beat into thee."

The hint was sufficient, and Empson took good care so to perform his air
as to merit his high and deserved reputation. But on Fenella it made not
the slightest impression. She rather leant than stood against the wall of
the apartment; her countenance as pale as death, her arms and hands
hanging down as if stiffened, and her existence only testified by the sobs
which agitated her bosom, and the tears which flowed from her half-closed
eyes.

"A plague on it," said the King, "some evil spirit is abroad this morning;
and the wenches are all bewitched, I think. Cheer up, my girl. What, in
the devil's name, has changed thee at once from a Nymph to a Niobe? If
thou standest there longer thou wilt grow to the very marble wall—Or—oddsfish,
George, have you been bird-bolting in this quarter also?"

Ere Buckingham could answer to this charge, Julian again kneeled down to
the King, and prayed to be heard, were it only for five minutes. "The
young woman," he said, "had been long in attendance of the Countess of
Derby. She was bereaved of the faculties of speech and hearing."

"Oddsfish, man, and dances so well?" said the King. "Nay, all Gresham
College shall never make me believe that."

"I would have thought it equally impossible, but for what I to-day
witnessed," said Julian; "but only permit me, sir, to deliver the petition
of my lady the Countess."

"And who art thou thyself, man?" said the Sovereign; "for though
everything which wears bodice and breast-knot has a right to speak to a
King, and be answered, I know not that they have a title to audience
through an envoy extraordinary."

"I am Julian Peveril of Derbyshire," answered the supplicant, "the son of
Sir Geoffrey Peveril of Martindale Castle, who——"

"Body of me—the old Worcester man?" said the King. "Oddsfish, I
remember him well—some harm has happened to him, I think—Is he
not dead, or very sick at least?"

"Ill at ease, and it please your Majesty, but not ill in health. He has
been imprisoned on account of an alleged accession to this Plot."

"Look you there," said the King; "I knew he was in trouble; and yet how to
help the stout old Knight, I can hardly tell. I can scarce escape
suspicion of the Plot myself, though the principal object of it is to take
away my own life. Were I to stir to save a plotter, I should certainly be
brought in as an accessory.—Buckingham, thou hast some interest with
those who built this fine state engine, or at least who have driven it on—be
good-natured for once, though it is scarcely thy wont, and interfere to
shelter our old Worcester friend, Sir Godfrey. You have not forgot him?"

"No, sir," answered the Duke; "for I never heard the name."

"It is Sir Geoffrey his Majesty would say," said Julian.

"And if his Majesty did say Sir Geoffrey, Master Peveril, I cannot
see of what use I can be to your father," replied the Duke coldly. "He is
accused of a heavy crime; and a British subject so accused, can have no
shelter either from prince or peer, but must stand to the award and
deliverance of God and his country."

"Now, Heaven forgive thee thy hypocrisy, George," said the King hastily.
"I would rather hear the devil preach religion than thee teach patriotism.
Thou knowest as well as I, that the nation is in a scarlet fever for fear
of the poor Catholics, who are not two men to five hundred; and that the
public mind is so harassed with new narrations of conspiracy, and fresh
horrors every day, that people have as little real sense of what is just
or unjust as men who talk in their sleep of what is sense or nonsense. I
have borne, and borne with it—I have seen blood flow on the
scaffold, fearing to thwart the nation in its fury—and I pray to God
that I or mine be not called on to answer for it. I will no longer swim
with the torrent, which honour and conscience call upon me to stem—I
will act the part of a Sovereign, and save my people from doing injustice,
even in their own despite."

Charles walked hastily up and down the room as he expressed these unwonted
sentiments, with energy equally unwonted. After a momentary pause, the
Duke answered him gravely, "Spoken like a Royal King, sir, but—pardon
me—not like a King of England."

Charles paused, as the Duke spoke, beside a window which looked full on
Whitehall, and his eye was involuntarily attracted by the fatal window of
the Banqueting House out of which his unhappy father was conducted to
execution. Charles was naturally, or, more purposely, constitutionally
brave; but a life of pleasure, together with the habit of governing his
course rather by what was expedient than by what was right, rendered him
unapt to dare the same scene of danger or of martyrdom, which had closed
his father's life and reign; and the thought came over his half-formed
resolution, like the rain upon a kindling beacon. In another man, his
perplexity would have seemed almost ludicrous; but Charles would not lose,
even under these circumstances, the dignity and grace, which were as
natural to him as his indifference and good humour. "Our Council must
decide in this matter," he said, looking to the Duke; "and be assured,
young man," he added, addressing Julian, "your father shall not want an
intercessor in his King, so far as the laws will permit my interference in
his behalf."

Julian was about to retire, when Fenella, with a marked look, put into his
hand a slip of paper, on which she had hastily written, "The packet—give
him the packet."

After a moment's hesitation, during which he reflected that Fenella was
the organ of the Countess's pleasure, Julian resolved to obey. "Permit me,
then, Sire," he said, "to place in your royal hands this packet, entrusted
to me by the Countess of Derby. The letters have already been once taken
from me; and I have little hope that I can now deliver them as they are
addressed. I place them, therefore, in your royal hands, certain that they
will evince the innocence of the writer."

The King shook his head as he took the packet reluctantly. "It is no safe
office you have undertaken, young man. A messenger has sometimes his
throat cut for the sake of his despatches—But give them to me; and,
Chiffinch, give me wax and a taper." He employed himself in folding the
Countess's packet in another envelope. "Buckingham," he said, "you are
evidence that I do not read them till the Council shall see them."

Buckingham approached, and offered his services in folding the parcel, but
Charles rejected his assistance; and having finished his task, he sealed
the packet with his own signet-ring. The Duke bit his lip and retired.

"And now, young man," said the King, "your errand is sped, so far as it
can at present be forwarded."

Julian bowed deeply, as to take leave at these words, which he rightly
interpreted as a signal for his departure. Alice Bridgenorth still clung
to his arm, and motioned to withdraw along with him. The King and
Buckingham looked at each other in conscious astonishment, and yet not
without a desire to smile, so strange did it seem to them that a prize,
for which, an instant before, they had been mutually contending, should
thus glide out of their grasp, or rather be borne off by a third and very
inferior competitor.

"Mistress Chiffinch," said the King, with a hesitation which he could not
disguise, "I hope your fair charge is not about to leave you?"

"Pardon me, madam," answered Alice; "I have indeed mistaken my road, but
it was when I came hither."

"The errant damosel," said Buckingham, looking at Charles with as much
intelligence as etiquette permitted him to throw into his eye, and then
turning it towards Alice, as she still held by Julian's arm, "is resolved
not to mistake her road a second time. She has chosen a sufficient guide."

"And yet stories tell that such guides have led maidens astray," said the
King.

Alice blushed deeply, but instantly recovered her composure so soon as she
saw that her liberty was likely to depend upon the immediate exercise of
resolution. She quitted, from a sense of insulted delicacy, the arm of
Julian, to which she had hitherto clung; but as she spoke, she continued
to retain a slight grasp of his cloak. "I have indeed mistaken my way,"
she repeated still addressing Mrs. Chiffinch, "but it was when I crossed
this threshold. The usage to which I have been exposed in your house has
determined me to quit it instantly."

"I will not permit that, my young mistress," answered Mrs. Chiffinch,
"until your uncle, who placed you under my care, shall relieve me of the
charge of you."

"I will answer for my conduct, both to my uncle, and, what is of more
importance, to my father," said Alice. "You must permit me to depart,
madam; I am free-born, and you have no right to detain me."

"Pardon me, my young madam," said Mistress Chiffinch, "I have a right, and
I will maintain it too."

"I will know that before quitting this presence," said Alice firmly; and,
advancing a step or two, she dropped on her knee before the King. "Your
Majesty," said she, "if indeed I kneel before King Charles, is the father
of your subjects."

"Of a good many of them," said the Duke of Buckingham apart.

"I demand protection of you, in the name of God, and of the oath your
Majesty swore when you placed on your head the crown of this kingdom!"

"You have my protection," said the King, a little confused by an appeal so
unexpected and so solemn. "Do but remain quiet with this lady, with whom
your parents have placed you; neither Buckingham nor any one else shall
intrude on you."

"His Majesty," added Buckingham, in the same tone, and speaking from the
restless and mischief-making spirit of contradiction, which he never could
restrain, even when indulging it was most contrary, not only to propriety,
but to his own interest,—"His Majesty will protect you, fair lady,
from all intrusion save what must not be termed such."

Alice darted a keen look on the Duke, as if to read his meaning; another
on Charles, to know whether she had guessed it rightly. There was a guilty
confession on the King's brow, which confirmed Alice's determination to
depart. "Your Majesty will forgive me," she said; "it is not here that I
can enjoy the advantage of your royal protection. I am resolved to leave
this house. If I am detained, it must be by violence, which I trust no one
dare offer to me in your Majesty's presence. This gentleman, whom I have
long known, will conduct me to my friends."

"We make but an indifferent figure in this scene, methinks," said the
King, addressing the Duke of Buckingham, and speaking in a whisper; "but
she must go—I neither will, nor dare, stop her from returning to her
father."

"And if she does," swore the Duke internally, "I would, as Sir Andrew
Smith saith, I might never touch fair lady's hand." And stepping back, he
spoke a few words with Empson the musician, who left the apartment, for a
few minutes, and presently returned.

The King seemed irresolute concerning the part he should act under
circumstances so peculiar. To be foiled in a gallant intrigue, was to
subject himself to the ridicule of his gay court; to persist in it by any
means which approached to constraint, would have been tyrannical; and,
what perhaps he might judge as severe an imputation, it would have been
unbecoming a gentleman. "Upon my honour, young lady," he said, with an
emphasis, "you have nothing to fear in this house. But it is improper, for
your own sake, that you should leave it in this abrupt manner. If you will
have the goodness to wait but a quarter of an hour, Mistress Chiffinch's
coach will be placed at your command, to transport you where you will.
Spare yourself the ridicule, and me the pain of seeing you leave the house
of one of my servants, as if you were escaping from a prison."

The King spoke in good-natured sincerity, and Alice was inclined for an
instant to listen to his advice; but recollecting that she had to search
for her father and uncle, or, failing them, for some suitable place of
secure residence, it rushed on her mind that the attendants of Mistress
Chiffinch were not likely to prove trusty guides or assistants in such a
purpose. Firmly and respectfully she announced her purpose of instant
departure. She needed no other escort, she said, than what this gentleman,
Master Julian Peveril, who was well known to her father, would willingly
afford her; nor did she need that farther than until she had reached her
father's residence.

"Farewell, then, lady, a God's name!" said the King; "I am sorry so much
beauty should be wedded to so many shrewish suspicions.—For you,
Master Peveril, I should have thought you had enough to do with your own
affairs without interfering with the humours of the fair sex. The duty of
conducting all strayed damsels into the right path is, as matters go in
this good city, rather too weighty an undertaking for your youth and
inexperience."

Julian, eager to conduct Alice from a place of which he began fully to
appreciate the perils, answered nothing to this taunt, but bowing
reverently, led her from the apartment. Her sudden appearance, and the
animated scene which followed, had entirely absorbed, for the moment, the
recollection of his father and of the Countess of Derby; and while the
dumb attendant of the latter remained in the room, a silent, and, as it
were, stunned spectator of all that had happened, Peveril had become, in
the predominating interest of Alice's critical situation, totally
forgetful of her presence. But no sooner had he left the room, without
noticing or attending to her, than Fenella, starting, as from a trance,
drew herself up, and looked wildly around, like one waking from a dream,
as if to assure herself that her companion was gone, and gone without
paying the slightest attention to her. She folded her hands together, and
cast her eyes upwards, with an expression of such agony as explained to
Charles (as he thought) what painful ideas were passing in her mind. "This
Peveril is a perfect pattern of successful perfidy, carrying off this
Queen of the Amazons, but he has left us, I think, a disconsolate Ariadne
in her place.—But weep not, my princess of pretty movements," he
said, addressing himself to Fenella; "if we cannot call in Bacchus to
console you, we will commit you to the care of Empson, who shall drink
with Liber Pater for a thousand pounds, and I will say done first."

As the King spoke these words, Fenella rushed past him with her wonted
rapidity of step, and, with much less courtesy than was due to the royal
presence, hurried downstairs, and out of the house, without attempting to
open any communication with the Monarch. He saw her abrupt departure with
more surprise than displeasure; and presently afterwards, bursting into a
fit of laughter, he said to the Duke, "Oddsfish, George, this young spark
might teach the best of us how to manage the wenches. I have had my own
experience, but I could never yet contrive either to win or lose them with
so little ceremony."

"Experience, sir," replied the duke, "cannot be acquired without years."

"True, George; and you would, I suppose, insinuate," said Charles, "that
the gallant who acquires it, loses as much in youth as he gains in art? I
defy your insinuation, George. You cannot overreach your master, old as
you think him, either in love or politics. You have not the secret plumer
la poule sans la faire crier, witness this morning's work. I will give
you odds at all games—ay, and at the Mall too, if thou darest accept
my challenge.—Chiffinch, what for dost thou convulse thy pretty
throat and face with sobbing and hatching tears, which seem rather
unwilling to make their appearance!"

"It is for fear," whined Chiffinch, "that your Majesty should think—that
you should expect——"

"That I should expect gratitude from a courtier, or faith from a woman?"
answered the King, patting her at the same time under the chin, to make
her raise her face—"Tush! chicken, I am not so superfluous."

"There it is now," said Chiffinch, continuing to sob the more bitterly, as
she felt herself unable to produce any tears; "I see your Majesty is
determined to lay all the blame on me, when I am innocent as an unborn
babe—I will be judged by his Grace."

"No doubt, no doubt, Chiffie," said the King. "His Grace and you will be
excellent judges in each other's cause, and as good witnesses in each
other's favour. But to investigate the matter impartially, we must examine
our evidence apart.—My Lord Duke, we meet at the Mall at noon, if
your Grace dare accept my challenge."

His Grace of Buckingham bowed, and retired.

CHAPTER XXXII

But when the bully with assuming pace,
Cocks his broad hat, edged round with tarnish'd lace,
Yield not the way—defy his strutting pride,
And thrust him to the muddy kennel's side,
Yet rather bear the shower and toils of mud,
Than in the doubtful quarrel risk thy blood.
—GAY'S TRIVIA.

Julian Peveril, half-leading, half-supporting, Alice Bridgenorth, had
reached the middle of Saint Jame's Street ere the doubt occurred to him
which way they should bend their course. He then asked Alice whither he
should conduct her, and learned, to his surprise and embarrassment, that,
far from knowing where her father was to be found, she had no certain
knowledge that he was in London, and only hoped that he had arrived, from
the expressions which he had used at parting. She mentioned her uncle
Christian's address, but it was with doubt and hesitation, arising from
the hands in which he had already placed her; and her reluctance to go
again under his protection was strongly confirmed by her youthful guide,
when a few words had established to his conviction the identity of
Ganlesse and Christian.—What then was to be done?

"Alice," said Julian, after a moment's reflection, "you must seek your
earliest and best friend—I mean my mother. She has now no castle in
which to receive you—she has but a miserable lodging, so near the
jail in which my father is confined, that it seems almost a cell of the
same prison. I have not seen her since my coming hither; but thus much
have I learned by inquiry. We will now go to her apartment; such as it is,
I know she will share it with one so innocent and so unprotected as you
are."

"Gracious Heaven!" said the poor girl, "am I then so totally deserted,
that I must throw myself on the mercy of her who, of all the world, has
most reason to spurn me from her?—Julian, can you advise me to this?—Is
there none else who will afford me a few hours' refuge, till I can hear
from my father?—No other protectress but her whose ruin has, I fear,
been accelerated by——Julian, I dare not appear before your
mother! she must hate me for my family, and despise me for my meanness. To
be a second time cast on her protection, when the first has been so evil
repaid—Julian, I dare not go with you."

"She has never ceased to love you, Alice," said her conductor, whose steps
she continued to attend, even while declaring her resolution not to go
with him, "she never felt anything but kindness towards you, nay, towards
your father; for though his dealings with us have been harsh, she can
allow much for the provocation which he has received. Believe me, with her
you will be safe as with a mother—perhaps it may be the means of
reconciling the divisions by which we have suffered so much."

"Might God grant it!" said Alice. "Yet how shall I face your mother? And
will she be able to protect me against these powerful men—against my
uncle Christian? Alas, that I must call him my worst enemy!"

"She has the ascendancy which honour hath over infamy, and virtue over
vice," said Julian; "and to no human power but your father's will she
resign you, if you consent to choose her for your protectress. Come, then,
with me, Alice; and——"

Julian was interrupted by some one, who, laying an unceremonious hold of
his cloak, pulled it with so much force as compelled him to stop and lay
his hand on his sword. He turned at the same time, and, when he turned,
beheld Fenella. The cheek of the mute glowed like fire; her eyes sparkled,
and her lips were forcibly drawn together, as if she had difficulty to
repress those wild screams which usually attended her agonies of passion,
and which, uttered in the open street, must instantly have collected a
crowd. As it was, her appearance was so singular, and her emotion so
evident, that men gazed as they came on, and looked back after they had
passed, at the singular vivacity of her gestures; while, holding Peveril's
cloak with one hand, she made with the other the most eager and imperious
signs that he should leave Alice Bridgenorth and follow her. She touched
the plume in her bonnet to remind him of the Earl—pointed to her
heart, to imitate the Countess—raised her closed hand, as if to
command him in their name—and next moment folded both, as if to
supplicate him in her own; while pointing to Alice with an expression at
once of angry and scornful derision, she waved her hand repeatedly and
disdainfully, to intimate that Peveril ought to cast her off, as something
undeserving his protection.

Frightened, she knew not why, at these wild gestures, Alice clung closer
to Julian's arm than she had at first dared to do; and this mark of
confidence in his protection seemed to increase the passion of Fenella.

Julian was dreadfully embarrassed; his situation was sufficiently
precarious, even before Fenella's ungovernable passions threatened to ruin
the only plan which he had been able to suggest. What she wanted with him—how
far the fate of the Earl and Countess might depend on his following her,
he could not even conjecture; but be the call how peremptory soever, he
resolved not to comply with it until he had seen Alice placed in safety.
In the meantime, he determined not to lose sight of Fenella; and
disregarding her repeated, disdainful, and impetuous rejection of the hand
which he offered her, he at length seemed so far to have soothed her, that
she seized upon his right arm, and, as if despairing of his following her
path, appeared reconciled to attend him on that which he himself should
choose.

Thus, with a youthful female clinging to each arm, and both remarkably
calculated to attract the public eye, though from very different reasons,
Julian resolved to make the shortest road to the water-side, and there to
take boat for Blackfriars, as the nearest point of landing to Newgate,
where he concluded that Lance had already announced his arrival in London
to Sir Geoffrey, then inhabiting that dismal region, and to his lady, who,
so far as the jailer's rigour permitted, shared and softened his
imprisonment.

Julian's embarrassment in passing Charing Cross and Northumberland House
was so great as to excite the attention of the passengers; for he had to
compose his steps so as to moderate the unequal and rapid pace of Fenella
to the timid and faint progress of his left-hand companion; and while it
would have been needless to address himself to the former, who could not
comprehend him, he dared not speak himself to Alice, for fear of awakening
into frenzy the jealousy, or at least the impatience of Fenella.

Many passengers looked at them with wonder, and some with smiles; but
Julian remarked that there were two who never lost sight of them, and to
whom his situation, and the demeanour of his companions, seemed to afford
matter of undisguised merriment. These were young men, such as may be seen
in the same precincts in the present day, allowing for the difference in
the fashion of their apparel. They abounded in periwig, and fluttered with
many hundred yards of ribbon, disposed in bow-knots upon their sleeves,
their breeches, and their waistcoats, in the very extremity of the
existing mode. A quantity of lace and embroidery made their habits rather
fine than tasteful. In a word, they were dressed in that caricature of the
fashion, which sometimes denotes a harebrained man of quality who has a
mind to be distinguished as a fop of the first order, but is much more
frequently in the disguise of those who desire to be esteemed men of rank
on account of their dress, having no other pretension to the distinction.

These two gallants passed Peveril more than once, linked arm in arm, then
sauntered, so as to oblige him to pass them in turn, laughing and
whispering during these manoeuvres—staring broadly at Peveril and
his female companions—and affording them, as they came into contact,
none of those facilities of giving place which are required on such
occasions by the ordinary rules of the pavé.

Peveril did not immediately observe their impertinence; but when it was
too gross to escape his notice, his gall began to arise; and, in addition
to all the other embarrassments of his situation, he had to combat the
longing desire which he felt to cudgel handsomely the two coxcombs who
seemed thus determined on insulting him. Patience and sufferance were
indeed strongly imposed on him by circumstances; but at length it became
scarcely possible to observe their dictates any longer.

When, for the third time, Julian found himself obliged, with his
companions, to pass this troublesome brace of fops, they kept walking
close behind him, speaking so loud as to be heard, and in a tone of
perfect indifference whether he listened to them or not.

"This is bumpkin's best luck," said the taller of the two (who was indeed
a man of remarkable size, alluding to the plainness of Peveril's dress,
which was scarce fit for the streets of London)—"Two such fine
wenches, and under guard of a grey frock and an oaken riding-rod!"

"Nay, Puritan's luck rather, and more than enough of it," said his
companion. "You may read Puritan in his pace and in his patience."

"Right as a pint bumper, Tom," said his friend—"Isschar is an ass
that stoopeth between two burdens."

"I have a mind to ease long-eared Laurence of one of his encumbrances,"
said the shorter fellow. "That black-eyed sparkler looks as if she had a
mind to run away from him."

"Ay," answered the taller, "and the blue-eyed trembler looks as if she
would fall behind into my loving arms."

At these words, Alice, holding still closer by Peveril's arm than
formerly, mended her pace almost to running, in order to escape from men
whose language was so alarming; and Fenella walked hastily forward in the
same manner, having perhaps caught, from the men's gestures and demeanour,
that apprehension which Alice had taken from their language.

Fearful of the consequences of a fray in the streets, which must
necessarily separate him from these unprotected females, Peveril
endeavoured to compound betwixt the prudence necessary for their
protection and his own rising resentment; and as this troublesome pair of
attendants endeavoured again to pass them close to Hungerford Stairs, he
said to them with constrained calmness, "Gentlemen, I owe you something
for the attention you have bestowed on the affairs of a stranger. If you
have any pretension to the name I have given you, you will tell me where
you are to be found."

"And with what purpose," said the taller of the two sneeringly, "does your
most rustic gravity, or your most grave rusticity, require of us such
information?"

So saying, they both faced about, in such a manner as to make it
impossible for Julian to advance any farther.

"Make for the stairs, Alice," he said; "I will be with you in an instant."
Then freeing himself with difficulty from the grasp of his companions, he
cast his cloak hastily round his left arm, and said, sternly, to his
opponents, "Will you give me your names, sirs; or will you be pleased to
make way?"

"Not till we know for whom we are to give place," said one of them.

"For one who will else teach you what you want—good manners," said
Peveril, and advanced as if to push between them.

They separated, but one of them stretched forth his foot before Peveril,
as if he meant to trip him. The blood of his ancestors was already boiling
within him; he struck the man on the face with the oaken rod which he had
just sneered at, and throwing it from him, instantly unsheathed his sword.
Both the others drew, and pushed at once; but he caught the point of the
one rapier in his cloak, and parried the other thrust with his own weapon.
He must have been less lucky in the second close, but a cry arose among
the watermen, of "Shame, shame! two upon one!"

"They are men of the Duke of Buckingham's," said one fellow—"there's
no safe meddling with them."

"They may be the devil's men, if they will," said an ancient Triton,
flourishing his stretcher; "but I say fair play, and old England for ever;
and, I say, knock the gold-laced puppies down, unless they will fight turn
about with grey jerkin, like honest fellows. One down—t'other come
on."

The lower orders of London have in all times been remarkable for the
delight which they have taken in club-law, or fist-law; and for the equity
and impartiality with which they see it administered. The noble science of
defence was then so generally known, that a bout at single rapier excited
at that time as much interest and as little wonder as a boxing-match in
our own days. The bystanders experienced in such affrays, presently formed
a ring, within which Peveril and the taller and more forward of his
antagonists were soon engaged in close combat with their swords, whilst
the other, overawed by the spectators, was prevented from interfering.

"Well done the tall fellow!"—"Well thrust, long-legs!'—"Huzza
for two ells and a quarter!" were the sounds with which the fray was at
first cheered; for Peveril's opponent not only showed great activity and
skill in fence, but had also a decided advantage, from the anxiety with
which Julian looked out for Alice Bridgenorth; the care for whose safety
diverted him in the beginning of the onset from that which he ought to
have exclusively bestowed on the defence of his own life. A slight
flesh-wound in the side at once punished, and warned him of, his
inadvertence; when, turning his whole thoughts on the business in which he
was engaged, and animated with anger against his impertinent intruder, the
rencontre speedily began to assume another face, amidst cries of "Well
done, grey jerkin!"—"Try the metal of his gold doublet!"—"Finely
thrust!"—"Curiously parried!"—"There went another eyelet-hole
to his broidered jerkin!"—"Fairly pinked, by G—d!" In
applause, accompanying a successful and conclusive lunge, by which Peveril
ran his gigantic antagonist through the body. He looked at his prostrate
foe for a moment; then, recovering himself, called loudly to know what had
become of the lady.

"Never mind the lady, if you be wise," said one of the watermen; "the
constable will be here in an instant. I'll give your honour a cast across
the water in a moment. It may be as much as your neck's worth. Shall only
charge a Jacobus."

"You be d—d!" said one of his rivals in profession, "as your father
was before you; for a Jacobus, I'll set the gentleman into Alsatia, where
neither bailiff nor constable dare trespass."

"The lady, you scoundrels, the lady!" exclaimed Peveril—-"Where is
the lady?"

"I'll carry your honour where you shall have enough of ladies, if that be
your want," said the old Triton; and as he spoke, the clamour amongst the
watermen was renewed, each hoping to cut his own profit out of the
emergency of Julian's situation.

"A sculler will be least suspected, your honour," said one fellow.

"A pair of oars will carry you through the water like a wild-duck," said
another.

"But you have got never a tilt, brother," said a third. "Now I can put the
gentleman as snug as if he were under hatches."

In the midst of the oaths and clamour attending this aquatic controversy
for his custom, Peveril at length made them understand that he would
bestow a Jacobus, not on him whose boat was first oars, but on whomsoever
should inform him of the fate of the lady.

"Of which lady?" said a sharp fellow: "for, to my thought, there was a
pair of them."

"Ay, ay, that was she that shrieked so when gold-jacket's companion handed
her into No. 20."

"Who—what—who dared to hand her?" exclaimed Peveril.

"Nay, master, you have heard enough of my tale without a fee," said the
waterman.

"Sordid rascal!" said Peveril, giving him a gold piece, "speak out, or
I'll run my sword through you!"

"For the matter of that, master," answered the fellow, "not while I can
handle this trunnion—but a bargain's a bargain; and so I'll tell
you, for your gold piece, that the comrade of the fellow forced one of
your wenches, her with the fair hair, will she, nill she, into Tickling
Tom's wherry; and they are far enough up Thames by this time, with wind
and tide."

A volley of water language was exchanged betwixt the successful candidate
for Peveril's custom and his disappointed brethren, which concluded by the
ancient Triton's bellowing out, in a tone above them all, "that the
gentleman was in a fair way to make a voyage to the isle of gulls, for
that sly Jack was only bantering him—No. 20 had rowed for York
Buildings."

"To the isle of gallows," cried another; "for here comes one who will mar
his trip up Thames, and carry him down to Execution Dock."

In fact, as he spoke the word, a constable, with three or four of his
assistants, armed with the old-fashioned brown bills, which were still
used for arming those guardians of the peace, cut off our hero's farther
progress to the water's edge, by arresting him in the King's name. To
attempt resistance would have been madness, as he was surrounded on all
sides; so Peveril was disarmed, and carried before the nearest Justice of
the Peace, for examination and committal.

The legal sage before whom Julian was taken was a man very honest in his
intentions, very bounded in his talents, and rather timid in his
disposition. Before the general alarm given to England, and to the city of
London in particular, by the notable discovery of the Popish Plot, Master
Maulstatute had taken serene and undisturbed pride and pleasure in the
discharge of his duties as a Justice of the Peace, with the exercise of
all its honorary privileges and awful authority. But the murder of Sir
Edmondsbury Godfrey had made a strong, nay, an indelible impression on his
mind; and he walked the Courts of Themis with fear and trembling after
that memorable and melancholy event.

Having a high idea of his official importance, and rather an exalted
notion of his personal consequence, his honour saw nothing from that time
but cords and daggers before his eyes, and never stepped out of his own
house, which he fortified, and in some measure garrisoned, with
half-a-dozen tall watchmen and constables, without seeing himself watched
by a Papist in disguise, with a drawn sword under his cloak. It was even
whispered, that, in the agonies of his fears, the worshipful Master
Maulstatute mistook the kitchen-wench with a tinderbox, for a Jesuit with
a pistol; but if any one dared to laugh at such an error, he would have
done well to conceal his mirth, lest he fell under the heavy inculpation
of being a banterer and stifler of the Plot—a crime almost as deep
as that of being himself a plotter. In fact, the fears of the honest
Justice, however ridiculously exorbitant, were kept so much in countenance
by the outcry of the day, and the general nervous fever, which afflicted
every good Protestant, that Master Maulstatute was accounted the bolder
man and the better magistrate, while, under the terror of the air-drawn
dagger which fancy placed continually before his eyes, he continued to
dole forth Justice in the recesses of his private chamber, nay,
occasionally to attend Quarter-Sessions, when the hall was guarded by a
sufficient body of the militia. Such was the wight, at whose door, well
chained and doubly bolted, the constable who had Julian in custody now
gave his important and well-known knock.

Notwithstanding this official signal, the party was not admitted until the
clerk, who acted the part of high-warder, had reconnoitred them through a
grated wicket; for who could say whether the Papists might not have made
themselves master of Master Constable's sign, and have prepared a pseudo
watch to burst in and murder the Justice, under pretence of bringing in a
criminal before him?—Less hopeful projects had figured in the
Narrative of the Popish Plot.

All being found right, the key was turned, the bolts were drawn, and the
chain unhooked, so as to permit entrance to the constable, the prisoner,
and the assistants; and the door was then a suddenly shut against the
witnesses, who, as less trustworthy persons, were requested (through the
wicket) to remain in the yard, until they should be called in their
respective turns.

Had Julian been inclined for mirth, as was far from being the case, he
must have smiled at the incongruity of the clerk's apparel, who had belted
over his black buckram suit a buff baldric, sustaining a broadsword, and a
pair of huge horse-pistols; and, instead of the low flat hat, which,
coming in place of the city cap, completed the dress of a scrivener, had
placed on his greasy locks a rusted steel-cap, which had seen
Marston-Moor; across which projected his well-used quill, in the guise of
a plume—the shape of the morion not admitting of its being stuck, as
usual, behind his ear.

This whimsical figure conducted the constable, his assistants, and the
prisoner, into the low hall, where his principal dealt forth justice; who
presented an appearance still more singular than that of his dependant.

Sundry good Protestants, who thought so highly of themselves as to suppose
they were worthy to be distinguished as objects of Catholic cruelty, had
taken to defensive arms on the occasion. But it was quickly found that a
breast-plate and back-plate of proof, fastened together with iron clasps,
was no convenient enclosure for a man who meant to eat venison and
custard; and that a buff-coat or shirt of mail was scarcely more
accommodating to the exertions necessary on such active occasions.
Besides, there were other objections, as the alarming and menacing aspects
which such warlike habiliments gave to the Exchange, and other places,
where merchants most do congregate; and excoriations were bitterly
complained of by many, who, not belonging to the artillery company, or
trained bands, had no experience in bearing defensive armour.

To obviate these objections, and, at the same time, to secure the persons
of all true Protestant citizens against open force or privy assassinations
on the part of the Papists, some ingenious artist, belonging, we may
presume, to the worshipful Mercers' Company, had contrived a species of
armour, of which neither the horse-armory in the Tower, nor Gwynnap's
Gothic Hall, no, nor Dr. Meyrick's invaluable collection of ancient arms,
has preserved any specimen. It was called silk-armour, being composed of a
doublet and breeches of quilted silk, so closely stitched, and of such
thickness, as to be proof against either bullet or steel; while a thick
bonnet of the same materials, with ear-flaps attached to it, and on the
whole, much resembling a nightcap, completed the equipment and ascertained
the security of the wearer from the head to the knee.

Master Maulstatute, among other worthy citizens, had adopted this singular
panoply, which had the advantage of being soft, and warm, and flexible, as
well as safe. And he now sat in his judicial elbow-chair—a short,
rotund figure, hung round, as it were, with cushions, for such was the
appearance of the quilted garments; and with a nose protruded from under
the silken casque, the size of which, together with the unwieldiness of
the whole figure, gave his worship no indifferent resemblance to the sign
of the Hog in Armour, which was considerably improved by the defensive
garment being of dusty orange colour, not altogether unlike the hue of
those half-wild swine which are to be found in the forest of Hampshire.

Secure in these invulnerable envelopments, his worship had rested content,
although severed from his own death-doing weapons, of rapier, poniard, and
pistols, which were placed nevertheless, at no great distance from his
chair. One offensive implement, indeed, he thought it prudent to keep on
the table beside his huge Coke upon Lyttleton. This was a sort of pocket
flail, consisting of a piece of strong ash, about eighteen inches long, to
which was attached a swinging club of lignum-vitæ, nearly twice as
long as the handle, but jointed so as to be easily folded up. This
instrument, which bore at that time the singular name of the Protestant
flail, might be concealed under the coat, until circumstances demanded its
public appearance. A better precaution against surprise than his arms,
whether offensive or defensive, was a strong iron grating, which, crossing
the room in front of the justice's table, and communicating by a grated
door, which was usually kept locked, effectually separated the accused
party from his judge.

Justice Maulstatute, such as we have described him, chose to hear the
accusation of the witnesses before calling on Peveril for his defence. The
detail of the affray was briefly given by the bystanders, and seemed
deeply to touch the spirit of the examinator. He shook his silken casque
emphatically, when he understood that, after some language betwixt the
parties, which the witnesses did not quite understand, the young man in
custody struck the first blow, and drew his sword before the wounded party
had unsheathed his weapon. Again he shook his crested head yet more
solemnly, when the result of the conflict was known; and yet again, when
one of the witnesses declared, that, to the best of his knowledge, the
sufferer in the fray was a gentleman belonging to the household of his
Grace the Duke of Buckingham.

"A worthy peer," quoth the armed magistrate—"a true Protestant, and
a friend to his country. Mercy on us, to what a height of audacity hath
this age arisen! We see well, and could, were we as blind as a mole, out
of what quiver this shaft hath been drawn."

He then put on his spectacles, and having desired Julian to be brought
forward, he glared upon him awfully with those glazen eyes, from under the
shade of his quilted turban.

Peveril had time enough to recollect the necessity of his being at large,
if he could possibly obtain his freedom, and interposed here a civil
contradiction of his worship's gracious supposition. "He was no Catholic,"
he said, "but an unworthy member of the Church of England."

"Perhaps but a lukewarm Protestant, notwithstanding," said the sage
Justice; "there are those amongst us who ride tantivy to Rome, and have
already made out half the journey—ahem!"

Peveril disowned his being any such.

"And who art thou, then?" said the Justice; "for, friend, to tell you
plainly, I like not your visage—ahem!"

These short and emphatic coughs were accompanied each by a succinct nod,
intimating the perfect conviction of the speaker that he had made the
best, the wisest, and the most acute observation, of which the premises
admitted.

Julian, irritated by the whole circumstances of his detention, answered
the Justice's interrogation in rather a lofty tone. "My name is Julian
Peveril!"

"Now, Heaven be around us!" said the terrified Justice—"the son of
that black-hearted Papist and traitor, Sir Geoffrey Peveril, now in hands,
and on the verge of trial!"

"How, sir!" exclaimed Julian, forgetting his situation, and, stepping
forward to the grating, with a violence which made the bars clatter, he so
startled the appalled Justice, that, snatching his Protestant flail,
Master Maulstatute aimed a blow at his prisoner, to repel what he
apprehended was a premeditated attack. But whether it was owing to the
Justice's hurry of mind, or inexperience in managing the weapon, he not
only missed his aim, but brought the swinging part of the machine round
his own skull, with such a severe counter-buff, as completely to try the
efficacy of his cushioned helmet, and, in spite of its defence, to convey
a stunning sensation, which he rather hastily imputed to the consequence
of a blow received from Peveril.

His assistants did not directly confirm the opinion which the Justice had
so unwarrantably adopted; but all with one voice agreed that, but for
their own active and instantaneous interference, there was no knowing what
mischief might have been done by a person so dangerous as the prisoner.
The general opinion that he meant to proceed in the matter of his own
rescue, par voie du fait, was indeed so deeply impressed on all
present, that Julian saw it would be in vain to offer any defence,
especially being but too conscious that the alarming and probably the
fatal consequences of his rencontre with the bully, rendered his
commitment inevitable. He contented himself with asking into what prison
he was to be thrown; and when the formidable word Newgate was returned as
full answer, he had at least the satisfaction to reflect, that, stern and
dangerous as was the shelter of that roof, he should at least enjoy it in
company with his father; and that, by some means or other, they might
perhaps obtain the satisfaction of a melancholy meeting, under the
circumstances of mutual calamity, which seemed impending over their house.

Assuming the virtue of more patience than he actually possessed, Julian
gave the magistrate (to whom all the mildness of his demeanour could not,
however, reconcile him), the direction to the house where he lodged,
together with a request that his servant, Lance Outram, might be permitted
to send him his money and wearing apparel; adding, that all which might be
in his possession, either of arms or writings,—the former amounting
to a pair of travelling pistols, and the last to a few memoranda of little
consequence, he willingly consented to place at the disposal of the
magistrate. It was in that moment that he entertained, with sincere
satisfaction, the comforting reflection, that the important papers of Lady
Derby were already in the possession of the sovereign.

The Justice promised attention to his requests; but reminded him, with
great dignity, that his present complacent and submissive behaviour ought,
for his own sake, to have been adopted from the beginning, instead of
disturbing the presence of magistracy with such atrocious marks of the
malignant, rebellious, and murderous spirit of Popery, as he had at first
exhibited. "Yet," he said, "as he was a goodly young man, and of
honourable quality, he would not suffer him to be dragged through the
streets as a felon, but had ordered a coach for his accommodation."

His honour, Master Maulstatute, uttered the word "coach" with the
importance of one who, as Dr. Johnson saith of later date, is conscious of
the dignity of putting horses to his chariot. The worshipful Master
Maulstatute did not, however on this occasion, do Julian the honour of
yoking to his huge family caroche the two "frampal jades" (to use the term
of the period), which were wont to drag that ark to the meeting house of
pure and precious Master Howlaglass, on a Thursday's evening for lecture,
and on a Sunday for a four-hours' sermon. He had recourse to a leathern
convenience, then more rare, but just introduced, with every prospect of
the great facility which has since been afforded by hackney coaches, to
all manner of communication, honest and dishonest, legal and illegal. Our
friend Julian, hitherto much more accustomed to the saddle than to any
other conveyance, soon found himself in a hackney carriage, with the
constable and two assistants for his companions, armed up to the teeth—the
port of destination being, as they had already intimated, the ancient
fortress of Newgate.

CHAPTER XXXIII

'Tis the black ban-dog of our jail—Pray look on him,
But at a wary distance—rouse him not—
He bays not till he worries.
—THE BLACK DOG OF NEWGATE.

The coach stopped before those tremendous gates, which resemble those of
Tartarus, save only that they rather more frequently permit safe and
honourable egress; although at the price of the same anxiety and labour
with which Hercules, and one or two of the demi-gods, extricated
themselves from the Hell of the ancient mythology, and sometimes, it is
said, by the assistance of the golden boughs.

Julian stepped out of the vehicle, carefully supported on either side by
his companions, and also by one or two turnkeys, whom the first summons of
the deep bell at the gate had called to their assistance. That attention,
it may be guessed, was not bestowed lest he should make a false step, so
much as for fear of his attempting an escape, of which he had no
intentions. A few prentices and straggling boys of the neighbouring
market, which derived considerable advantage from increase of custom, in
consequence of the numerous committals on account of the Popish Plot, and
who therefore were zealous of Protestants, saluted him on his descent with
jubilee shouts of "Whoop, Papist! whoop, Papist! D——n to the
Pope, and all his adherents!"

Under such auspices, Peveril was ushered in beneath that gloomy gateway,
where so many bid adieu on their entrance at once to honour and to life.
The dark and dismal arch under which he soon found himself opened upon a
large courtyard, where a number of debtors were employed in playing at
handball, pitch-and-toss, hustle-cap, and other games, for which
relaxations the rigour of their creditors afforded them full leisure,
while it debarred them the means of pursuing the honest labour by which
they might have redeemed their affairs, and maintained their starving and
beggared families.

But with this careless and desperate group Julian was not to be numbered,
being led, or rather forced, by his conductors, into a low arched door,
which, carefully secured by bolts and bars, opened for his reception on
one side of the archway, and closed, with all its fastenings, the moment
after his hasty entrance. He was then conducted along two or three gloomy
passages, which, where they intersected each other, were guarded by as
many strong wickets, one of iron gates, and the others of stout oak,
clinched with plates, and studded with nails of the same metal. He was not
allowed to pause until he found himself hurried into a little round
vaulted room, which several of these passages opened into, and which
seemed, with respect to the labyrinth through part of which he had passed,
to resemble the central point of a spider's web, in which the main lines
of that reptile's curious maze are always found to terminate.

The resemblance did not end here; for in this small vaulted apartment, the
walls of which were hung round with musketoons, pistols, cutlasses, and
other weapons, as well as with many sets of fetters and irons of different
construction, all disposed in great order, and ready for employment, a
person sat, who might not unaptly be compared to a huge bloated and
bottled spider, placed there to secure the prey which had fallen into his
toils.

This official had originally been a very strong and square-built man, of
large size, but was now so overgrown, from overfeeding, perhaps, and want
of exercise, as to bear the same resemblance to his former self which a
stall-fed ox still retains to a wild bull. The look of no man is so
inauspicious as a fat man, upon whose features ill-nature has marked an
habitual stamp. He seems to have reversed the old proverb of "laugh and be
fat," and to have thriven under the influence of the worst affections of
the mind. Passionate we can allow a jolly mortal to be; but it seems
unnatural to his goodly case to be sulky and brutal. Now this man's
features, surly and tallow-coloured; his limbs, swelled and
disproportioned; his huge paunch and unwieldy carcass, suggested the idea,
that, having once found his way into this central recess, he had there
fattened, like the weasel in the fable, and fed largely and foully, until
he had become incapable of retreating through any of the narrow paths that
terminated at his cell; and was thus compelled to remain, like a toad
under the cold stone, fattening amid the squalid airs of the dungeons by
which he was surrounded, which would have proved pestiferous to any other
than such a congenial inhabitant. Huge iron-clasped books lay before this
ominous specimen of pinguitude—the records of the realm of misery,
in which office he officiated as prime minister; and had Peveril come
thither as an unconcerned visitor, his heart would have sunk within him at
considering the mass of human wretchedness which must needs be registered
in these fatal volumes. But his own distresses sat too heavy on his mind
to permit any general reflections of this nature.

The constable and this bulky official whispered together, after the former
had delivered to the latter the warrant of Julian's commitment. The word
whispered is not quite accurate, for their communication was
carried on less by words than by looks and expressive signs; by which, in
all such situations, men learn to supply the use of language, and to add
mystery to what is in itself sufficiently terrible to the captive. The
only words which could be heard were those of the Warden, or, as he was
called then, the Captain of the Jail, "Another bird to the cage——?"

"Who will whistle 'Pretty Pope of Rome,' with any starling in your
Knight's ward," answered the constable, with a facetious air, checked,
however, by the due respect to the supreme presence in which he stood.

The Grim Feature relaxed into something like a smile as he heard the
officer's observation; but instantly composing himself into the stern
solemnity which for an instant had been disturbed, he looked fiercely at
his new guest, and pronounced with an awful and emphatic, yet rather an
under-voice, the single and impressive word, "Garnish!"

Julian Peveril replied with assumed composure; for he had heard of the
customs of such places, and was resolved to comply with them, so as if
possible to obtain the favour of seeing his father, which he shrewdly
guessed must depend on his gratifying the avarice of the keeper. "I am
quite ready," he said, "to accede to the customs of the place in which I
unhappily find myself. You have but to name your demands, and I will
satisfy them."

So saying, he drew out his purse, thinking himself at the same time
fortunate that he had retained about him a considerable sum of gold. The
Captain remarked its width, depth, its extension, and depression, with an
involuntary smile, which had scarce contorted his hanging under-lip, and
the wiry and greasy moustache which thatched the upper, when it was
checked by the recollection that there were regulations which set bounds
to his rapacity, and prevented him from pouncing on his prey like a kite,
and swooping it all off at once.

This chilling reflection produced the following sullen reply to Peveril:—"There
were sundry rates. Gentlemen must choose for themselves. He asked nothing
but his fees. But civility," he muttered, "must be paid for."

"And shall, if I can have it for payment," said Peveril; "but the price,
my good sir, the price?"

He spoke with some degree of scorn, which he was the less anxious to
repress, that he saw, even in this jail, his purse gave him an indirect
but powerful influence over his jailer.

The Captain seemed to feel the same; for, as he spoke, he plucked from his
head, almost involuntarily, a sort of scalded fur-cap, which served it for
covering. But his fingers revolting from so unusual an act of
complaisance, began to indemnify themselves by scratching his grizzly
shock-head, as he muttered, in a tone resembling the softened growling of
a mastiff when he has ceased to bay the intruder who shows no fear of him,—"There
are different rates. There is the Little Ease, for common fees of the
crown—rather dark, and the common sewer runs below it; and some
gentlemen object to the company, who are chiefly padders and michers. Then
the Master's side—the garnish came to one piece—and none lay
stowed there but who were in for murder at the least."

"Three pieces for the Knight's ward," answered the governor of this
terrestrial Tartarus.

"Take five, and place me with Sir Geoffrey," was again Julian's answer,
throwing down the money upon the desk before him.

"Sir Geoffrey?—Hum!—ay, Sir Geoffrey," said the jailer, as if
meditating what he ought to do. "Well, many a man has paid money to see
Sir Geoffrey—Scarce so much as you have, though. But then you are
like to see the last of him.—Ha, ha ha!"

These broken muttered exclamations, which terminated somewhat like the
joyous growl of a tiger over his meal, Julian could not comprehend; and
only replied to by repeating his request to be placed in the same cell
with Sir Geoffrey.

"Ay, master," said the jailer, "never fear; I'll keep word with you, as
you seem to know something of what belongs to your station and mine. And
hark ye, Jem Clink will fetch you the darbies."

"Derby!" interrupted Julian,—"Has the Earl or Countess——"

"Earl or Countess!—Ha, ha, ha!" again laughed, or rather growled,
the warden. "What is your head running on? You are a high fellow belike!
but all is one here. The darbies are the fetlocks—the fast-keepers,
my boy—the bail for good behaviour, my darling; and if you are not
the more conforming, I can add you a steel nightcap, and a curious
bosom-friend, to keep you warm of a winter night. But don't be
disheartened; you have behaved genteel; and you shall not be put upon. And
as for this here matter, ten to one it will turn out chance-medley, or
manslaughter, at the worst on it; and then it is but a singed thumb
instead of a twisted neck—always if there be no Papistry about it,
for then I warrant nothing.—Take the gentleman's worship away,
Clink."